


The Lovers

by GlamorousTrashMage



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 12:59:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 295,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3729844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlamorousTrashMage/pseuds/GlamorousTrashMage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian x Trevelyan. Plenty of fluff that will most certainly devolve into smut rather quickly. Canon-compliant-ish?</p><p>What happens when a Tevinter mage and a headstrong Herald team up to stop crazy cultists, fight horrible demons, and seal the Breach? Sparks will fly as our star-crossed heroes brave the odds, not to mention the gossip from the loose-lipped nobility. With a cast of idiosyncratic companions (none of whom I created!) and fearsome foes (none of whom I created!), brace yourself for a tale of adventure, excitement, and love! And also snark. Lots of snark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Chantry at Redcliffe

Dorian fussed with one of the many buckles that kept his robes in place. He loathed waiting, even for a dear friend like Felix. Even for a cause as important as stopping the Venatori. _What could possibly be taking them so long?_ Dorian rolled his eyes at the situation. Sitting in a Southern Chantry, a sturdy little building as starkly decorated as some Soporati hovel out in the nether-reaches of Tevinter, with all the charm of a nug shitting on your finest rug. It was nothing like the Tevinter Chantries to which he was accustomed: glorious, gleaming buildings, with windows that allowed light to stream in freely, designed by the some of the greatest architects that Thedas had ever seen, crafted from the finest stones and metal, a true testament to the light of the Maker and his Bride. 

Not that he’d stepped foot in a Tevinter Chantry in years. Dorian sneezed. _Does no one clean this building?_

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples gently. He let his mind wander, an attempt to stave off falling asleep. The room was dark enough; it would be all too easy to drift off inadvertently. Alexius, wrapped up in all this Ventori cult nonsense. What was he aiming to achieve? Heading South, all of a sudden, _warping time_ to arrive in Redcliffe just days after the Breach. He couldn’t help but think this was somehow connected to the Breach. A bunch of Tevinters running amok in the South, tearing open the Veil, stoking the flames of the mage-Templar war by offering aid to the rebel mages? These things were not coincidence. 

_Almost laughable that the rebel mages would fall so easily for that ploy,_ Dorian thought. If they would be so foolish as to reach for the hand of Tevinter, well, maybe they deserved whatever befell them. Tevinter had no hands; snakes never did. But Tevinter had fangs, and it seems this Ventori cult was poised to strike. But at whom, exactly? The South, in general? What could they possibly hope to gain? The Imperium proper would never permit such involvement in Southern affairs, for fear of starting an all-out war, a war that it would most assuredly lose.

Maybe it was this Inquisition. The explosion. This Herald. The Venatori swooping in as the Inquisition emerges as a force trying to bring stability to Southern Thedas. None of it made sense. The Inquisition was fledgling! The Southern Chantry would watch the Inquisition be crushed and not lift a finger, and while the movement had gained momentum, it certainly didn’t have the requisite popular support to be considered anything more than a minor annoyance.

Maybe they were trying to get to the Herald. A man who could close tears in the Veil, Dorian had heard. Magic unlike anyone had ever seen. He would think that the Tevinter interest in this power was purely academic, but that would be giving his homeland far too much credit. They never learn, do they? Dorian thought. _Tevinter forays into the Fade have been so successful in the past, why not try again, see if we can break the world for good this time?_

Still, the thought of a man with a glowing green hand was almost comical. Dorian could picture it now. Some silly, unrefined Southerner, with nary a clue of what he possessed. How desperately even the most powerful of Tevinter magisters would scramble to acquire such a tool! He hadn’t been close enough to the Breach to see it hanging in the sky, but he could almost see the green glow lurking behind his eyelids, the Fade slowly dripping into the world, bringing with it spirits and demons and all the horrors from the world beyond the Veil. 

He opened his eyes. The green glow he thought he had pictured in his mind was not, in fact, in his mind. It was hanging in the middle of the room, pouring out of what he assumed was one of the Rifts he had heard so much talk of.

 _Fascinating_ , he thought. _And eerily beautiful. A pity I won’t be able to enjoy it._

A demon slithered by him, unaware of his presence.

_Well, Pavus. You’ve really stepped in it this time._

He stood up quietly, careful to maneuver his staff into a combat stance. He bent his knees slightly and lifted his left hand in front of his face, taking aim at the demon. 

_Back to the Fade with you._

The demon ignited in flames. It bellowed in agony, or maybe pleasure? Dorian wasn’t sure. Lower demons, like these, only seemed capable of making the same screeching sound, regardless of whether they were burning to a crisp or not.

The demon slumped over, dead. The flames vanished as the body began to dissipate, back to the Fade. 

Dorian stood back up, calmly. Simple enough.

He heard the hiss behind him. He pulled a barrier up around him and felt the demon’s claws come down hard against it. 

_Kaffas._ Dorian thought, as he Fade Stepped around a column. There were three demons slithering around the periphery of the Chantry, who were now well aware that they had company. He thought back to his training, in the Circle in Vyrantium, the words of one of his wizened instructors echoing in his mind. _Ah, Pavus, always so quick to show off your prowess. If only you’d bothered to look around first,_ as an Ice Glyph had snapped underneath Dorian’s feet and frozen him to the ground. 

Old habits die hard, I suppose. 

What Dorian needed was crowd control. If he had not been concerned with burning the Chantry down to the ground around him, he’d drop a Fire Wall and watch the base creatures vanish into ash. But he had to be tactical, just to avoid any obvious structural damage. However, all the effort Dorian had expended, stealthily following Alexius down to the ass-end of Thedas for the sake of foiling this Venatori plot, would be completely negated by leaving a trail. 

The first demon was nearly upon him. He spun his staff around and froze it solid, and dug the blade end of his staff deep into its skull, watching it shatter into thousands of tiny fragments of ice and blood. _Two to go._

The other two demons were flanking him. That limited his options significantly. Lightning was not the go-to choice for flank attacks, and he’d already managed to get away with one Immolate spell without taking down any support beams. No point in testing the outer limits of his luck. 

He didn’t have much time to make a choice. He reinforced the barrier around him. The demons swooped in. He tilted the head of the staff to the right, and launched a Walking Bomb right into the face of one of the demons. It careened back from the force of the spell. The other demon busied itself banging against Dorian’s barrier, which was holding strong against the attack. _Now we play the waiting game_ , Dorian thought. Sure, he could detonate the Bomb at any moment, but he wanted to delay the detonation, to maximize the effect. The demon he had blown away had picked itself up. In spite of the curse working its way through the creature, it threw itself at Dorian. Both demons beating down against the barrier weakened it significantly. _Just a little longer._

And with a sickening pop, the demon exploded from the inside out. Thankfully, the remainder of the barrier prevented its innards from spraying all over his robes. The other demon wasn’t so lucky, and was blown back across the Chantry towards the rift. Dorian moved quickly over to it, hoping he’d be able to finish the beast off without expending much more energy. 

Another demon snaked its way out the rift. Its scream ripped through the Chantry. 

_Oh well._

While Dorian preferred utilizing magic, he wasn’t above a bit of physicality from time to time, especially when it wasn’t expected. _Pavus!_ He heard his old instructor once more. _You’re an Altus! Don’t you think someone with your skill and standing is above smacking your enemies around like some kind of Avvar?_

The ends didn’t always justify the means, of course. But banishing demons to the Fade? A little physical force certainly wasn’t breaking any of his deep-seated convictions. 

He caught the newly-formed demon square in the chest with the tip of his staff and blasted it back across the floor of the Chantry with a bolt of lightning.

_Alright, so not pure physicality._

He heard the door of the Chantry open behind him. _Kaffas_! He hoped that it wasn’t one of these Venatori cultists. Or worse, Alexius himself. He would have turned to look, but the demon that had been caught in the concussive blast of the Walking Bomb had gotten up, and began careening toward Dorian with what was left of its power. Dorian smashed his staff against the demon and watched as it dissipated into green vapor, sucked back into the Rift. 

The other demon charged at him, and he just as easily dispatched it. 

_Time to greet your guests_. He turned to face them, expecting the worst.

His visitors were not of Tevinter; at least, they did not wear the easily identifiable robes of his people, with the sharp hoods and gilded chains that were favored in the Imperium.

He saw a man, about his height, hand outstretched, glowing green, flanked by an stern-looking woman with a jawline that could carve marble, a dwarf with some sort of contraption strung over his shoulder, and… was that a _Qunari?_

“Good! You’re finally here! Now help me close this, would you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is kind of my first attempt at this kind of thing. Any feedback or commentary would be much, much, much appreciated. Especially on the title, which I just blindly robbed from the Tarot-card theme of DA:I. Hopefully creatively bankrupt is the only kind of bankrupt I'll ever be.
> 
> This will evolve into something much more spoiler-y and explicit. I've written way too much out of order, and have a million and one ideas floating around that sometimes just need to make it to the keyboard before they're lost forever, but I promise we'll make it to the end of the major events in DA:I by the time I'm finished!
> 
> Fair warning: this will be shakily canon-compliant at best. Or, I'm basically shooting the canon, out of a cannon, at worst. I'm most likely not going to be re-treading in-game events that don't deviate from what I'm putting down here, as that would be a waste of your time and mine. 
> 
> Last-minute legal spiel: I don't own any of the characters, places, etc. within this work, and I'm not making a profit off of this. The only reward I'm receiving is my own amusement. Hopefully that's enough Fair Use language to keep the lawyers at bay!


	2. The Plan at Haven

Dorian hated leaving Felix behind in Redcliffe. He looked weak, at least moreso than Dorian remembered him looking back in Tevinter. He had seen him a month or so before Dorian had fled his homeland, when color still flushed his cheeks, and he didn’t get winded so easily. He wondered how much had changed since his departure.

He remembered the night he left. He had no idea what he was doing, or where he would go, just that he had to leave, and that he had to run, and fast. The betrayal was his father’s, but in the heat of the moment, he could hardly focus the emotion on just one person. _Father, Mother, Alexius, the whole damned Magisterium, and Felix._

He couldn’t be mad at Felix. His heart softened for a moment, but he quickly buttoned himself back up. _You don’t have time to be sentimental_. He had gathered everything he could reasonably carry along the way, and some additional odds and ends that he could have afforded to leave behind. _One does want for some creature comforts_ , he tried to reason, even knowing it would load him down. Who knew how long he would be gone for? Who knew if he’d ever come back?

He was too proud to climb out a window, sneaking off into the night like some misfit teenager. He was walking out the front door. As he strode through the halls of his father’s estate, all he could hear was the echo of his light footfalls off the marble, and the pounding of his heart in his chest.

_Father seems to care little for whether or not he loses me. Fine then. I’m lost. Farewell, Magister Pavus._

The weight of his birthright hung around his neck. But he held himself high as he made it to the door.

“Master Pavus?” A voice. Dorian turned. 

“ _Kaffas_ , Elodin.” The elf stepped out from the shadows. A slight woman of many years, her face betrayed her age, as did the shine of her large, saucer-like eyes, the color of the turquoise sea. Her long, greying hair was braided, and wrapped into a bun. _To keep it out of my face while I work_ , she’d said once, to a much younger Dorian. He had such fond memories of her from his youth, an almost maternal figure, who would chide him for failing to finish his lessons, and sneak him treats even when Mother had said no. _Our little secret_ , she’d say, smiling down, rubbing her hand through his hair.

“Where are you headed?”

“I’m leaving. I cannot stay here any longer. It’s not safe for me.”

“I know.” She smiled, but here eyes were watery. Don’t make this harder, please, Dorian thought.

“Thank you for telling me. Thank you for giving me a chance to save myself.” He pulled her into his arms. He felt her shake, slightly, her head tucked neatly against his chest. “Thank you.” _Please don’t start crying. Then I’ll start crying. And I can’t afford to waste the eyeliner._

“I’m sorry. Your father doesn’t know what to do. I know that he believes he’s doing what’s best for you. But I… I…” She dissolved into a soft sob, stifling herself as to not cause any more attention. _She always looked out for me. Even now._

“Then you understand that I have to leave. I will miss you very much.”

“I know, Master Pavus.” 

“Elodin, please. I know Father insists on the titles when we’re all in the same room, but I’d prefer you call me Dorian.” She shook a little harder against him.

“I know.” She breathed in between sobs. “It just makes this all so much harder.” She gathered herself quickly and pulled herself up straight, wiping her eyes. “Go, now. Don’t wait any longer.”

He paused for a second. Father could be banished to the Void for all Dorian cared, and Mother, for all her cutting remarks and self-righteousness, was probably at the bottom of a bottle, but leaving Elodin would be the hardest. He took a step back, to renew his conviction, and nodded.

“Goodbye, Elodin.” He smiled weakly, and turned to walk out the door.

“Goodbye, Dorian.” She whispered, her voice hoarse, behind him.

Dorian bit back the tears. He Fade Stepped into the night, a swirl of ice and wind, fleeing through the relatively empty fields of Qarinus, faster, faster, until the lights of his father's estate died on the horizon behind him.

He hadn’t thought about slavery until he’d made it to the south. About what his dynamic with Elodin really meant. He’d like to think that their relationship was true and honest, and regardless of the fact that she was considered the property of his parents by the laws of the Imperium, that she truly cared for him, as he did for her. His mind sometimes wondered if the warmth she extended to him was the warmth that she had reserved for her own children, children that she never had. What would her life have been like, had his father not purchased her? Would she have stayed in Tevinter? Come down south? It’s not like the Elves fared much better here, tucked away in alienages, in abject poverty, still subject to the same prejudice as they were at home.

 _So all of a sudden you’re an expert on the plight of Elves in Southern Thedas?_ He thought to himself. He shook his mind free of the subject. Felix. Yes. Leaving Felix was painful, but necessary. He had to secure the Herald’s aid, to hobble the Venatori threat. He knew what his countrymen were capable of, and he wouldn’t let the rot that plagued the crumbling Imperium infect the rest of Thedas. 

He managed to get into Haven easily enough. He had to get a bit creative with the truth in order to get past the guards at the gate. A mage, from Redcliffe, come to speak with the leadership and secure their aid. The Tevinters, the awful, filthy Tevinters are plotting, scheming, please, I beseech you. I have information about the Magister and his plans. I must speak with the Herald.

_I hope they are serving dinner, considering I put on quite the show._

A solider lead him to the Chantry, tucked away in the back of Haven, to the room where the Herald and his advisors were planning their strategy. As they approached, the soldier who accompanied him veered to greet another soldier, stationed by the door, obviously there to keep unwanted guests out.

Dorian could hear voices coming from inside. A woman – Orlesian, if he was hearing her accent correctly – talking about sending spies into Redcliffe Castle to surprise the Venatori. Using the Herald as a distraction. _That’ll work splendidly_ , Dorian thought. _Not like they’ll have any magical wards or detection spells prepared to avoid this exact scenario_. Dorian sighed. Were all Southerners this hopeless?

The soldier turned to Dorian. “Wait here, and I’ll see-“ 

More voices from behind the door. A man. “ – Trevelyan, while we take out the Tevinters. It’s risky, but it could work.” Dorian recognized his cue.

“That won’t be necessary.” Dorian glided by the soldier and threw open the door. It hadn’t been locked, and he had been a bit too forceful. It swung open and crashed against the wall. The Herald and those gathered in the room all turned to look. 

_You always knew how to make an entrance._

He didn’t let it break his stride. 

“Fortunately, you’ll have help.”

He was greeted with silence. And irritation, judging by the faces of everyone in the room. Save the Herald, who flashed a toothy smile, seemingly amused by the turn of events.

_Not as handsome as me. Then again, who is?_

The solder rushed into the room after Dorian, in what he suspected was an attempt to avoid looking incompetent in front of the leadership. “This man says he has information about the Magister and his methods.” 

The Lady Seeker crossed her arms and curled her lip. The man who had been speaking, wearing a fur collar that would make his mother die of envy, glowered across the table in the middle of the room. He spotted the Qunari and the dwarf who had accompanied the Herald to Redcliffe, as well as a smattering of other companions, including a bald elf who look like he’d been lost in the woods for several years, a stern-looking man with an unkempt beard that looked as if he’d been unable to find a bath for several years, and what he assumed was a woman, underneath all of the makeup and frills. _Orlesians_ , he sighed.

“Your spies will never get past Alexius’ magic without my help. So if you’re going after him, I’m coming along.” Dorian smiled brightly. No one returned the favor.

The Herald chimed in. “…Right, well, everyone, this is Dorian. We met him at Redcliffe. He offered his assistance in stopping Alexius, and apparently, refusal is not an option.” 

“As if you could afford to pass up the assistance that I have to offer. Plus, I’m also an exceptionally talented mage.” The Herald’s eyes widened a bit at that line, but his mouth curled upwards. 

“We have plenty of talented mages here already, none of them Tevinter.” The Orlesian creature sighed from across the room. “Besides, the kind of help we need isn’t the kind that would require the servants to spend the next week trying to get the blood out of the carpets.” She reminded him of an overly-pampered cat: immaculately groomed, thoroughly unimpressed, and unafraid to use her claws. 

“While I do cherish the presumption that Tevinter runs red with the blood of all the people it has sacrificed, I’ll have you know that I do not practice blood magic. It is the resort of the weak mind.” He repeated the words, a mantra that had been practice since his youth. They caught him by surprise when they left his mouth, but he reigned it in. _Stiff upper lip, or they’ll eat you alive, Pavus._

“Vivienne, Dorian helped us in Redcliffe, and gave us valuable information. If we end up assisting the rebel mages, he will be accompanying us.” The Herald said.

“Wait – what do you mean _if_?” Dorian was suddenly very annoyed. “You traipsed all the way out there, saw what was happening with your own eyes, and are now thinking, ‘Oh well, best leave that be, all that time magic will work itself out’?”

“We understand the severity of the situation in Redcliffe,” the Seeker chimed in, “however, we must also consider the Lord Seeker and the Templar Order.”

Oh yes. The Templars. Dorian hadn’t yet had the displeasure of encountering the Southern warriors, and considered himself all the more fortunate for it. Of course, the Imperium had their own version of the Order, one that was all but impotent, castrated by their lack of access to lyrium. The southern variation, however, was a much more deadly beast, one that he was all too happy to avoid, if possible.

“The Templars are the safer bet. They are uniquely equipped to stop magical threats, and would be invaluable in providing assistance to stop the Breach.” The blond man in the fur collar uttered. 

“Yes, Cullen. But the Templars can only suppress the powers of the Fade. The mages can control it outright, and should not be discounted so easily,” countered the woman with the Orlesian accent, a lithe creature with red hair hidden under a violet hood.

Everyone in the room looked positively exhausted. They had clearly been debating the matter for some time, at this point, and it seemed no one had anything further to contribute.

“Where do you stand on all of this? As a southern mage, with the war between the two groups raging on, I can’t imagine that you haven’t picked a side,” Dorian wondered, his eyebrows arched in curiosity, hoping the Herald would have some sympathy for his fellow mages.

“The Herald,” Another woman, with tanned skin and raven locks braided into a low bun, tentatively added, “… believes that we can manage to help and recruit both groups.”

The Herald looked at Dorian with a sheepish smirk plastered on his face. Dorian couldn’t have been more far-removed from the conflict that had erupted between the mages and the Templars in the south, but news had spread quickly to the Imperium. Most of his compatriots openly mocked the south, their barbaric ways coming back to bite them in the ass. While Dorian wasn’t attuned to the finer points of the war that was tearing across the south, he knew enough to know that trying to get both sides within several hundreds yards of each other would leave both sides bloodied and beaten. 

“Well, you are the Herald of Andraste after all. If you want to start living up to that title, best start pulling some miracles out of thin air.” Dorian added. The Herald took it in stride, the smirk shifting to a full smile. The Herald closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, exhaling calmly, choosing his words carefully.

“We have to save them both. The rebel mages under the thumb of a Tevinter cult? The Templars being manipulated by the Lord Seeker, who admittedly, isn’t quite acting himself?”

“That’s impossible!” Cullen spat. “The war between the mages and the Templars has upended half of southern Thedas! The Tevinter is right - nothing short of a miracle could manage to pull them together underneath the same banner!”

“And even if we successfully convinced both groups to join us separately, the moment they arrived in Haven…” the red-headed woman cut in, “We’d be bringing the war to our front door, and with the Breach…” 

“Precisely, Leliana.” The Herald interrupted, coldly. “What better to unite the groups than a hole in the sky that threatens them both? They want the people of Thedas on their side? They can help seal the Breach.”

“But the logistics alone make this an impossible task. The time it would take you to deal with the rebel mages in Redcliffe would leave you no time to make it to Therinfal Redoubt to confront the Lord Seeker.” The raven-haired woman added, in a tone that indicated she was trying to be helpfyl.

“Yes, Josephine. While that is true, I have a plan. I guarantee none of you will like it, but it’s the only option to secure both the aid of the mages and the Templars.” The Herald added. He turned his head to Dorian. “You said that Alexius used time magic in order to make it to the mages in Redcliffe just after the explosion at the Conclave?”

As the thought of what the Herald was proposing began to sink in, which took all of several moments, the room erupted into utter chaos. 

“That’s insane! We want to stop the Venatori from using time magic! And then we’d just go and use it ourselves?! This is ridiculous!” The Seeker shouted. She shook her head and made a noise of pure disgust. 

“Time magic is highly unstable,” the bald elf in the corner asserted loudly, his voice not quite reaching the pitch of the Lady Seeker’s. “The Seeker is right. The dangers are too great.”

“ _No way_ you’re getting me anywhere _near_ any time-y magic nonsense!” The little elf girl in the corner of the room, who up until this point had been quietly picking at her ragged shirt, screamed. “Not for a million sovereigns!”

“That sounds like a great idea. What could go wrong? Tevinter cults! Red Lyrium! Templars! Rifts! Demons! Why not add time magic to the list?” Varric added, a sarcastic tone underpinning his words.

The Herald held up his hand in protest, but the arguments didn’t stop. He shook his head, and caused the Mark to flicker violently. That seemed to be enough to get everyone’s attention.

“The Breach is a threat to all of us. What if the rebel mages themselves aren’t enough to seal the Breach? What if the Templars can’t reach high enough to push the magic down? What if we can’t close the Breach, and the effort kills me? We cannot afford failure; more importantly, Thedas cannot afford failure. The Breach must be sealed. We need both the mages and the Templars to maximize our chances of success.” The Herald was stern and determined, not an ounce of mirth in his eyes. Far-flung from the roguish mage that he’d encountered in Redcliffe’s Chantry. 

“The risk is too great. Do we even understand how Alexius’ time magic works?” Cullen said. His curiosity about the finer mechanics of time magic wasn’t an indication that he was warming to the plan. In fact, his tone was possibly harsher than before.

The Herald looked over to Dorian, who had been surveying the scenario, happy to remain quiet as opposed to draw more attention to himself. For once, Dorian thought. The Herald’s eyes were almost apologetic. _Well, this is fantastic_ , Dorian thought, knowing what was about to come.

“Dorian, you worked with Magister Alexius in developing whatever it is he’s using to manipulate time?” The Herald asked, his tone softening slightly. Several eyes in the room narrowed in Dorian’s direction. The Bull snorted disapproval. 

_Remember, Dorian, you aren’t here to make friends._

“Yes, in fact, it was my genius that helped to cement Alexius’ theories. Although, at the time we were developing the amulet, all of the magic was theoretical at best, and we had only envisioned limited use of the magic.”

“The amulet?”

“Oh, I’d forgotten to mention, yes. I had crafted an amulet specifically designed for harnessing the requisite energy and altering the flow of time. It was really rather interesting, warping and folding the Veil upon itself with enough force-“ Dorian stopped himself. Expounding magical theory to a bunch of people who either didn’t care, or would love to kill him for unleashing this horror on the world was not the wisest course of action. “Again, this was all theoretical – we didn’t have enough power, and we weren’t about to resort to blood magic to get it.” If eyes had been narrowed at him before, the mention of blood magic drew them to mere slits. _Careful, Dorian. There’s one of you, and eleven of them_. “But that’s neither here nor there. It seems that the Breach, and the resulting rifts that have sprung up, are giving Alexius exactly what he needs to effectively power the amulet.” 

“So if he doesn’t have the amulet, he can’t manipulate time? Then he’d be no more dangerous than your typical mage?” The Herald asked earnestly. 

“Well, as dangerous as your typical _Magister_.” Dorian scoffed. _He didn’t have the restrictions you southern mages did, locked up in Circles, only allowed to toy around with your power, never to explore its true depths_. “But yes, he’d have no power over time.” 

“So it’s simple: We go with Leliana’s plan, sneak some Inquisition agents into Redcliffe castle, stop Alexius, grab the amulet, go back far enough in time, and make it to Therinfal Redoubt with enough time to rejoin the Inquisition forces and confront the Lord Seeker.” The Herald said, as plainly as possible. _Yes, as if this plan didn’t run the risk of getting them all killed, or ripping the world apart at its seams._

“You seem convinced that this is all as easy as a snap of the fingers.” Vivienne said, her voice a tempered challenge to the Herald’s plan. “We don’t even know if the Tevinter -“ _She means you, Dorian_ , “- can successfully utilize the amulet.”

“My dear, as I had stated earlier, I worked on the magic with Alexius myself. He would have never figured out the intricacies without my assistance. I would be more than capable of utilizing the amulet.” 

She didn’t seem to appreciate the response. 

“Herald, the world is already being ripped apart. Can we risk doing further damage with this time magic?” Cassandra asked. Her tone was calm, poised. _Smart enough to realize that yelling him off the ledge hasn’t worked thus far_.

“And what if we can’t close the Breach? The world would be ripped apart anyway. We have to take this risk. I am asking you to trust me.”

The occupants of the room looked around nervously. Were they actually considering the plan, or just biding time until one of them broke the silence?

Since no one else was going to be bold enough, Dorian figured he was just as good a candidate as any. “You’ve neglected to ask me how I feel about this, and the answer is ‘rather negatively.’ The magic Alexius has shouldn’t be wielded by anyone – regardless of his intentions. The amulet should be destroyed as soon as we have the opportunity.” 

The Herald started to say something, but was quickly interrupted. 

“Herald, I… This plan is too dangerous. I am asking you to reconsider.” Cullen’s tone was measured, pleading.

“No.” The Herald stood up, strong and tall. He held his left hand out. It glowed gently. _He really plays up that Mark to maximum effect_. “This is the plan. I understand your concerns. I know that you don’t like it. But this is how we are proceeding. It will work. We will acquire the aid of both the rebel mages and the Templars. And we will broker some kind of peace between the two, if only for long enough to seal the Breach.” 

“Herald…” Cullen started. 

The Herald’s head dropped down – he was clearly frustrated and at his wit’s end, like a genius attempting to explain his masterpiece to a toddler. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He sighed. 

“I didn’t want it to have to come to this, to be honest, but I know that I’m right.” His voice had gone severe “At the moment, I am the only chance that we have for sealing the Breach. And we cannot wait much longer. If the Inquisition will not stand with me, then I will go it alone. I will walk out the gates of Haven, and execute the plan _myself_.” The Herald raised his head to look up at everyone. His face was an unmoving mask, his lips drawn into a thin line. “I probably wouldn’t even make it past Alexius. And I’m no good to anyone dead. I have stood with the Inquisition, and now, I ask the Inquisition to stand with me. If not, so be it.”

The jaws of everyone in the room dropped. He wasn’t just twisting their arm; he was pulling it clean out of the socket. Dorian had to struggle not to giggle in sheer amusement. The Herald’s gambit reminded him of home, in a way. One certainly could make the argument that the Herald was unfairly leveraging his unique position to force the hands of his Inner Circle. What kind of force would the Inquisition grow into, with a Herald who was willing to take such extreme risks? Dorian had seen firsthand this sort of “ends-justify-the-means” reasoning taken to its conclusion, and his hopelessly corrupted homeland was proof of the result. However, the Herald was exceedingly determined. Although Dorian had exchanged but a handful of sentences with the man, this maneuver seemed somewhat out-of-character. Dorian’s interest was certainly piqued: what was behind this attempt to strong-arm the Inquisition’s leadership? 

The silence was deafening. “While this has been an impressive display, without me, you’ll be unable to use the amulet. So the point is moot.” Dorian said, in an attempt to deflate everyone else’s tension, even if the Herald was sure to turn his ire on him.

The Herald’s eyes turned to Dorian. “You know, Dorian. I’m a mage, too. Maybe not with your pedigree, but a mage nonetheless, of at least moderate talent. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty, seeing how the amulet works. I’m sure I’d be able to figure it out, after a couple tries.”

“You don’t get a couple of _tries!_ ” Dorian practically screeched. “Don’t you understand? One wrong flick of your wrist and everything you know – poof!”

“I guess that’s a chance I’ll have to take.” His face was perfectly calm. Dorian’s blood was boiling. _Arrogant bastard!_ He wasn’t sure what infuriated him more, the Herald’s desperate need to prove his point or the perfectly controlled way in which he was doing it. 

No one bothered to say a thing. They shifted nervously, save for Vivienne, who look about as displeased as if a servant had brought her a glass of the wrong type of wine.

“So, we’ll make our move as soon as possible. Josephine, reach out to the nobility, and Cullen, prepare the troops to move on Therinfal Redoubt. Leliana, have your people prepare to infiltrate Redcliffe Castle. As for who will be joining me on our detour to Redcliffe,” the Herald looked around. “Dorian, obviously. Iron Bull, you like killing Vints. And Varric. Once we’re finished, we’ll skip back as long as necessary to catch up with the rest of you on your way to Therinfal.”

Everyone looked up at him, defeated. They nodded their silent assent. Dorian wanted to scream.

“Excellent. Then we are done.” And with that, the Herald turned and walked out the door.

 _No way you’re just walking away from that mess_. Dorian’s legs were already moving, chasing the Herald down. He needed to be confronted. It may not change his mind, but someone needed to remind him that, Herald or not, this was all insane.

The Herald was practically out the door of the Chantry by the time Dorian caught up to him. 

“Excuse me, but we are not finished here.” Dorian said, angrily, and quite possibly a little too loud. 

“There’s no more room for discussion. No one else wanted to decide on a course of action. So I did. It’s done.”

“No, we are absolutely not done.” Dorian flung himself in the Herald’s path. “If you think for a second I’m going to bow to your whims because some backwater believers anointed you with some rubbish moniker, then you are mistaken.” 

The Herald maneuvered around him, a little too easily. “If you won’t help, you know the alternative, and you don’t like it. You have a choice, even if it’s a shitty one – more than most of the slaves in the Imperium get.” 

Dorian bristled at the mention of slavery, but he had to focus on the matter at hand. “You are deflecting.” Dorian was chasing the Herald down the hill towards a small collection of wooden cabins. “I didn’t leave the Imperium and all its depravity and corruption just to come down here and find myself bowing to the will of a tyrant.”

“So that’s what you think of me? A tyrant? You better be careful. If I really am the Herald of Andraste, I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate you talking to me like that.” They had come to the door of a cabin. The Herald opened it, and attempted to shut it behind him, but Dorian wasn’t about to allow this to be the end of the conversation.

“Yes, but you have an entire room full of people who probably wouldn’t be too bothered if you burned at the stake.” Dorian tried to temper his tone, but his words were still a bit heated. 

The Herald’s shoulders dropped. He turned to Dorian. “Do you think I enjoy this? Leveraging what little power I have in order to do what I know, in my heart, is right? We can’t ignore the plight of either group, nor can we ignore the fact that the continued conflict between them benefits neither side, and certainly does nothing for the people of Thedas.” He looked genuinely saddened. Dorian noticed the color of his eyes for the first time. Emerald. Dorian could have sworn the color of the Mark wove its way through his irises, but from here, he couldn’t be sure.

“But why? Why go through all this trouble? Why are you actively trying to earn the disapproval of your allies?”

“Because, Dorian, I don’t know if I can seal the Breach. I couldn’t do it last time.” The Herald looked positively defeated. “While I may have sealed more rifts and grown stronger since then, we can’t afford to let that Breach sit in the sky any longer. I need all the help that I can get. Like I said – what if the mages or the Templars alone are not enough?” The sadness in his eyes was undercut with fear. “I need to be able to close the Breach. Not for me, not for the Inquisition – for Thedas.” He sighed heavily, and looked into the fire burning in the hearth. “I didn’t ask for any of this to happen to me, and frankly, if I could have passed it off to someone else, I probably would have. Maybe I was chosen. Maybe this all was a freak accident. But as long as I bear the Mark, I bear the responsibility of closing the Breach.” The Herald looked up at Dorian. “I understand if you are angry with me, if you resent me for this, but it is what I have to do.” 

He pulled his hair out of the bun that it was tied in. It fell loose, in silvery-blonde waves, past the shaved sides of his head, down to his chin. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. He looked so tired, a far cry from the commanding figure in the War Room just minutes earlier. Dorian tried to rationalize all the different sides he’d seen of the Herald. 

_Here is a man in an impossible situation, marked by destiny or by chance, who has decided that the weight of the world falls squarely on his shoulders._ Dorian was torn. The Herald wasn’t making this power play to satisfy his own ego. Nor did it seem that he believed the Maker had touched him – plenty of men in the Herald’s position would have already wrapped themselves up neatly in delusions of grandeur, but that didn’t seem to be the case. The Herald truly wanted to help Thedas, and the fear of failure hung heavily in his mind. Regardless, decisions borne of fear were rarely the right ones, and Dorian certainly felt justified in having questioned them. The Herald shifted in his seat. _Were you in his position,_ Dorian thought, _with a Tevinter cult, rogue Templars, and Maker knows, the majority of Thedas bearing down against you all at once – how would you fare under that pressure? You’d probably be swimming at the bottom of a bottle by now._ Yet here the Herald was, determined to assume a responsibility he’d never asked for, ready to achieve success at all costs. Dorian shook his head lightly, in an attempt to dispel his internal dialogue. He found himself missing the jovial man he’d met at Redcliffe, who cracked wise about all the effort Alexius and the Venatori had put into getting to him. 

_Couldn’t you have just stayed that way?_ Dorian thought. _You were so charming._ Dorian found himself quietly praying for a sign from the Maker, any sign, so that he would know what direction to be pulled in.

The Herald looked up at Dorian calmly, apparently having collected himself while Dorian was lost in thought. 

“So, what do you say? I’m betting that it’ll be some variation of, ‘You’re an ass.’”

 _And there it is. Good enough, I suppose._ Dorian smiled in spite of himself, in spite of the fact that only moments ago, he very well would have punched the Herald square in the jaw. Which would have been a shame, considering that the Herald was, by an objective measure, an attractive specimen. 

“Complete and utter. But you’ve convinced me. If only because I wouldn’t trust a southern mage with magicking up a proper fire, and that’s saying nothing of trying to comprehend the intricacies of time magic.”

“You better be careful, or I’ll show you how well I can start a fire. Using your robes as kindling.” 

Dorian laughed politely. The Herald smiled appreciatively back at him. 

“Thank you, Dorian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, Herald. You're kind of a jerk. An insecure jerk, but a jerk nonetheless.
> 
> NOTE: Edited the beginning portion of this chapter as of 6/8/15 in order to comply with World of Thedas, Volume 2. DAMN YOU BIOWARE FOR YOUR DEVELOPED BACK STORIES!!! ::shakes fist::
> 
> Last-minute legal spiel: I don't own any of the characters, places, etc. within this work, and I'm not making a profit off of this. The only reward I'm receiving is my own amusement. Hopefully that's enough Fair Use language to keep the lawyers at bay!


	3. The Plan in Action

The Inquisition forces set out from Haven in an uneasy silence. The Herald was colder than the Frostbacks, his grim countenance steeled against potential last-minute objections to his plan. Better to freeze them out before they get too fired up, Dorian thought. An effective tactic for executing the plan, but it certainly wasn’t endearing him to his Inner Circle. No one was talking – not even Varric. 

The Herald rode ahead of the group, determined, on his mount. The combination of his frosty demeanor, added to the physical distance between him and the rest of the group only made the tension more palpable. 

Dorian was on the outskirts of the group. They’d all been polite enough, sure, but they’d kept their distance from him. Dorian found it amusing, to say the least. He was a mage from Tevinter, here to stop his crazed countrymen, determined to destroy the amulet to prevent time magic from causing the world to fold in on itself. All they heard, however, was the ‘mage from Tevinter’ part, and summarily treated him with the appropriate amount of distrust. Probably because they expected him to stick a knife in any one of their backs.

 _As if I would resort to a knife in their backs,_ Dorian had thought, _when I’m much more effective with a fireball to the face._

The companion who was currently closest to him was the elven archer girl, Sera. Dorian had tried speaking with her once or twice in Haven’s small tavern, but it hadn’t gotten very far. Mostly because she’d threatened to turn his ass into a pincushion with a bunch of her arrows if he got any of his magic near her, and he’d seen enough of her skill to know that this wasn’t a threat he should take lightly. Besides, his ass was priceless, and he didn’t want to risk any harm befalling it. When he had tried to explain that magic wasn’t just something you can ‘keep away’, she shrieked and went through a list of obscenities so extensive that he could feel the heat from half the tavern blushing. He’d given up since then. His father’s words came to mind: _Try to argue with a madman, and you’ll see just how quickly you’re reduced to one yourself._

Present circumstances considered, Dorian already felt like he’d gone a little mad. Marching to confront his old mentor and the Venatori he’d imported from Tevinter, steal the amulet, and manipulate the very fabric of time and space so that the Herald might be in two places at once. What harm could one more conversation with Sera do?

“Sera?”

“Yes?” She asked, her voice shaky. She wasn’t doing a very good job on the mount, probably due to lack of proper training. The horse cantered delicately, but she bobbed up and down like a boat during a storm at sea. Dorian almost regretted opening his mouth – just looking at her poor form made him seasick.

“I was wondering,” he asked, tilting his head to the path in front of him to calm his stomach, “which side of this little war are you on? You don’t seem to be a fan of magic, so I would assume the Templars?”

“How about neither?”

“Really? And why is that?”

“Because,” Sera said, trying to straighten herself and only half-succeeding, “the mages and the Templars are so busy whinging about all their problems and killing each other than they don’t care about all the people that get caught in the middle of their stupid fight.” 

“I suppose that’s true enough. What do you think about the Herald’s plan to bring both of them back to Haven?”

“Even stupider!” Sera wailed, loudly enough for some of the other companions to turn their heads. “Listen, the mages are all busy crying ‘Freedom!’ But they go around blowing up Chantries and summoning demons. And the Templars, poking everything that might even have a little magic with swords, and plenty of stuff that doesn’t even have magic at all.”

“So what would you do?”

“Lock ‘em all up, or ship ‘em away somewhere, so the rest of us can get back to things being normal. Enough problems here without them, anyway.” She huffed.

“Quite right. Well, thank you Sera.” Dorian said, cheerily enough. He rolled his eyes internally. He decided that the rest of the ride to Redcliffe would best be conducted in silence, thinking about what might happen once they arrived. 

____

 

The Herald, Dorian, the Bull, and Varric had broken off from the rest of the Inquisition on the King’s Highway. Redcliffe was only a few hours’ march from the spot where the two groups parted. Leliana’s forward scouts were already stationed in Redcliffe, ready to move into position the moment the Herald arrived. 

Hopefully, their detour wouldn’t take them very long. 

They had set a spot on the Highway, further east, where the smaller group would meet back up with the rest of the Inquisition once they had finished dealing with Alexius and the Venatori. If they didn't manage to break time in the process. 

The Herald seemed less cold here, and was not attempting to keep too much distance between himself and the others, like he had before. Easier to deal with a smaller group, Dorian supposed, than the objections of a group three times its size.

Still, conversation didn’t seem appropriate. He hoped they didn’t have to cut their way through the Venatori in Redcliffe. Better to conserve their energy for the upcoming trip through time. Dorian highly doubted they’d be so lucky. He sighed. 

“So, Vint.” The Bull started in. All of a sudden, Dorian was exasperated. “How do you feel about going after your old mentor?”

“The man in Redcliffe, leading the Venatori threat, is not the man I remember. To fall in line with this Venatori cult nonsense – there has to be a reason behind all of it. Mind you, I’m not saying that it excuses his actions.”

“What if you’re forced to fight him?” _Rather direct for a Ben-Hassrath_ , Dorian thought. Bull’s good eye was trained on Dorian. Dorian was sure he was watching for a twitch or a tic, some little motion or quaver of the voice, some indication that Dorian’s resolve was penetrable.

“I will not back down from a challenge, especially not one from Alexius.” Dorian’s tone was trained. “My homeland is in desperate need of reform; we rest on the laurels of our past success, all the while ignoring the walls crumbling down around us. Once, Alexius and I were of the same mind; we’d spend countless hours discussing the problems that plagued our country, and how it all needed to be excised. This Tevinter supremacist cult embodies everything he and I wanted to change about the Imperium. Anyone who stands with them, even Alexius, no matter his reasons, is an enemy of mine.”

“Hm.” The Bull said. Dorian waited for another question, another attempt by the Qunari spy to pry into his mind, but the question didn’t come.

Varric chimed in quickly to fill the gap. “Our Sparkler’s a reformer! How exciting. Which part are you going to fix first, the political maneuvering, blood magic using, demon summoning part, or are you going to stop them all from wearing those creepy, pointy robes?”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Well, Varric, considering you’re a dwarf, I suppose I should assume that that question was only half serious.” Varric chuckled at the jab at his height. “Frankly, I don’t see why we can’t change both. It may take a little time; I can’t imagine my countrymen giving up both blood magic and their fashion sense in one fell swoop. Which would you prefer I try to tackle first?”

“Definitely the robes. Soften their image up a bit. People do actually judge a book by its cover. Believe me. My publisher told me that’s why my last volume of _Swords and Shields_ did so poorly.”

“As opposed to it being utter tripe? Do they even bother reading any of your manuscripts after _Tale of the Champion_ , or do they just assume that your name slapped on the cover of any old tome will be worth its weight in sovereigns?”

“If they were worth their weight in sovereigns, I should be getting paid a lot more for writing them.” Varric smiled. “Speaking of sovereigns, care to place a wager?”

“A wager on what, exactly?” Dorian asked.

“Ten sovereigns says that before our little stopover in Redcliffe is over, something completely unexpected will happen.” 

“Like what?”

“If I expected it, then it would defeat the whole purpose of this bet, Sparkler. Besides, I’ve written enough stories like this one to know that plans like this rarely go off without a hitch.” 

“I’m not foolish enough to take that bet. We’re dealing with an extremist cult from Tevinter, Varric. Of course something unexpected is going to happen.” 

“Alright, Sparkler. Don’t worry though, we’ll still win. Too early in the story for it all to go up in flames.”

“Well, now I’m feeling great about our likelihood of success.” The Herald added, suddenly roused from the silence that had taken him. “Varric, what do you think my odds of making it out of this alive are?” 

“Depends. Pretty likely, unless your hand works just as well if it’s been severed from your body. In which case, you should probably start watching out for enemy archers.”

“The Herald of Andraste: blessed by the Maker, walked through the Fade, snuffed out by an arrow. Seems about right.” The Herald laughed at the idea.

“No, no, no. You have to think _bigger!_ ” Varric insisted. “When you finally do get killed, it’s going to be a lot better than just an arrow from a random lackey. Think, ‘ripped apart by a dragon!’ or ‘caught under an avalanche after saving a village!’”

“Promise you’ll write my eulogy?” The Herald asked, sarcastically.

“Only if you die in a way worth writing about.” Varric replied.

“Deal.”

The light conversation helped to ease the tension that had been permeating the group. The rest of the trip to Redcliffe was pleasant enough. When they got closer to the Village, Dorian parted from the rest of the group. Alexius was still unaware that Dorian was in the south, after all. What better gift for his former mentor than a surprise visit from his star pupil? 

As Dorian made his way to his destination, his mind wandered to the Inquisitor. Before they had parted, the Inquisitor pulled Dorian to the side, to speak with him alone. 

“I want to thank you, for coming along. And coming around to my plan.” The Inquisitor said, earnestly.

“Who said anything about coming around to your plan? I’m still of the mind that it’s completely idiotic. But I am here, and I will help you in any way that I can. I know that you mean well, even if you intend to play with forces that you don’t quite understand.”

“Can’t help but get a dig in, can you?” 

“Is that a problem?”

“No, it’s refreshing. Much more tolerable than people prostrating themselves at my feet. That gets old more quickly than you’d imagine.” That wry little smirk on his face, again. In the bright light of the day, Dorian could begin to appreciate the Herald’s face. He was so angular, the strong jawline, the prominent cheekbones, the sharp eyebrows that arched up and only turned back down near their outer edges. His nose brought character to his face, the bridge high and wide between his eyes, narrowing slightly as it sloped downward. His lips were full and slightly pouty. 

His hair was tied back into a top knot, carefully maneuvered to stay on top of his head even in the thick of mêlée. The sides and back of his head were shaved – Dorian assumed because, if the hair on top of the Herald’s head was any indication, a full head of hair would be so thick as to look like the mane of a lion. Except Dorian had never seen a lion with that color of silvery-blond hair. In fact, he’d never really seen anyone but elves with that color hair. Maybe some elven blood hidden in the Trevelyan family tree?

The Herald’s emerald eyes stared at Dorian. He had been right – the color of the Rifts burst forth from the blacks of his eyes in starbursts, out towards the edges. He wondered if they glowed like the Mark. 

_You’d have to see him in the dark to know, for sure. But then again, you probably wouldn’t be too occupied with his eye color if you were that close to him in the night, would you now, Pavus?_

It wasn’t the first time in the past week that he’d had thoughts about the Herald. He wondered how those bee-stung lips would feel against his neck, or what exactly lied underneath those leather robes. _If it’s half as good as what’s happening above the neck_ , Dorian thought, before shaking the thought out of his mind. Alexius. Venatori. Time magic. Right. 

“If I were prostrating myself in front of you, you wouldn’t tire of it so quickly, I assure you.” 

_Kaffas. Not the time for that, Pavus._

The Herald’s eyes widened, before he began to laugh. “No.” He said as his laughter ebbed. “I’m sure I wouldn’t.” There was something in his voice. But what was it? Dorian wanted to hear more. “There’s plenty of time for this later. You should probably be on your way. Please be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” 

“Yes, yes, because without me, the amulet is useless, your plan fails, I understand completely.”

The Herald looked puzzled for a moment, and then relaxed his features. “That too, I suppose. I just didn’t want to see you get hurt.”

“Oh?” said Dorian, but the Herald had started to turn away, but not before turning back for an instant, a glint in his eye more wicked than any demon Dorian had encountered, in this world or the Fade.

“There’s all that prostrating to look forward to later.” The Herald marched away, his confident saunter the same as if they'd been politely discussing the weather. _Well_ , Dorian thought, _here’s to later, then_ , as he caught himself stealing a glance at the Herald’s backside. He snapped himself out of the haze that enveloped him and turned to march toward his destination. 

Dorian had been traipsing along the path, hardly paying attention to where he was going, lost in his reverie. _The Herald of Andraste wanted Dorian on his knees?_ That was an intriguing thought. Dorian thought about the Herald, his broad shoulders, his lightly tanned skin, and what lied underneath all that armor. It wasn’t until he nearly tripped over the root of a tree that he’d realized how long he’d be lost in his daydreams.

He was closer to the Castle than he’d realized. He caught a glimpse of the Inquisitor, being greeted at the door, bowing his head respectfully, and being ushered in. 

_Time to put an end to all this Venatori nonsense._ Dorian took a breath. There was hope he could reason with Alexius, that this was all some lapse in judgment, that Dorian could make him see the light – at the very least, for Felix, whose time was quickly drawing to a close. 

_Ha! Hope for one of my compatriots. Haven’t I learned my lesson by now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters and almost ten thousand words? My sincerest apologies. If I were full of any more hot air, I'd be drifting into the stratosphere, and probably (read: thankfully) unable to update this.
> 
> Also, I'd like to pat myself on the back for getting right to the smut. I know I promised a devolution from fluff, but I am, however, not a nice man. 
> 
> Last-minute legal spiel: I don't own any of the characters, places, etc. within this work, and I'm not making a profit off of this. The only reward I'm receiving is my own amusement. Hopefully that's enough Fair Use language to keep the lawyers at bay!


	4. The Fallout After Redcliffe

Varric was right. Dorian certainly hadn’t expected nearly any of what transpired after confronting Alexius.

He saw what the world would become, if the Breach were not closed. The sickly green of the Fade twisting through the air, breaking against what seemed like mountains of red lyrium. A plot to murder the Empress of Orlais. An army of demons sweeping across Thedas. Alexius’ attempt at saving Felix had failed. Or succeeded, depending on whether or not you considered what Felix had, in that grim future, a life.

This was what the Herald had feared – a world where the Breach never closed, a first-hand vantage point of what his failure would mean for Thedas. Dorian shuddered to think that they’d only narrowly avoided that reality. He could only imagine how much heavier the weight on the Herald’s shoulders had become. 

And then this Elder One, whatever he might be, a Tevinter magister, leader of the Venatori, successfully elevated to Godhood? Dorian’s mind flew through emotions – rage, disappointment, horror, hopelessness. Sure, the motivation was easy enough to guess at - ‘Long Live Tevinter’, return to the glory of old, all of the rhetoric magisters repeated ad nauseum. This, however, wasn’t just rabble confined to the halls of the Magisterium for the sake of patriotism. This was full-tilt madness, spiraling off into unjustifiable action. All the lives lost at the Conclave, all the subsequent madness resulting from the hole in the sky – what fool magister thought any of this was a good idea?

Worse yet, the knowledge that this Elder One had succeeded, that he managed to fend off the rest of Thedas and assume the power of a God? Even with the Herald, how could they possibly succeed? How could one man begin to make a difference in the battle against a would-be God? 

King Alistair and Queen Anora were all too pleased to be rid of the mages. Poor manners, really, for a guest to invite a bunch of crashers to the party. Maker knows that the pair had seen enough strife in their homeland - and from a front-row seat - only a decade out from the last Blight. Watching the Grand Enchanter take advantage of their hospitality and opening the back door for a hostile foreign power - who could blame them for rescinding their offer of sanctuary? 

And then the Herald. _We would be honored to have you fight as allies at the Inquisition’s side!_ A proud proclamation from the dear leader, hand waving in the air, a proposition that Grand Enchanter Fiona had to take time to consider. _Ha!_ Dorian hated to admit it, but Vivienne was right – Fiona, the appointed leader of the mage rebellion, jumped into the frying pan and lit the fire underneath all the mages that invested their faith in her. Whatever shred of respect Dorian might have had for the woman, he’d lost it in the moment she’d paused to think about the terms of the Herald’s offer. The only term that the Herald placed upon acceptance of the mages was their assistance with the Breach. Anything short of complete consent to the terms of the arrangement was damn near unconscionable to Dorian, especially considering that Fiona had already lost some of the mages to the Venatori, who had spent no time in carting them off to Tevinter, or Seheron, or Maker knows where else. 

Fiona was a doddering fool, but not so far gone as to realize that, after her repeated failures, the Herald’s offer was far kinder than she deserved. _No wonder they locked up all the mages in Circles down here – a taste of freedom, and what do they all do? Stick their heads up their asses!_

Dorian had questioned the Herald’s decision, not that he’d been displeased that the Herald was too smart punish the rest of the mages for Fiona’s mistake. 

“I was a Circle mage, too. The old system is broken beyond repair. After all of this, how can we just turn back to the way that things were, as if nothing ever happened? The mages weren’t responsible for Fiona’s actions – her decision was unilateral. They – _we_ deserve a chance, at the very least, after everything we’ve been through.” 

“True enough, I suppose. And what of Fiona? Surely you aren’t leaving her in charge.”

“I said the Inquisition would accept the mages as allies. I can’t go about dictating who’s going to lead them after that… that would make me a hypocrite. Making decisions without anyone else’s input is exactly what allowed the Venatori to establish a foothold here in Recliffe. And, if I remember correctly,” The Herald said, his tone switching to light mockery, “you accused me of tyranny back in Haven. No one will invest any faith in us if they believe the Inquisition is leading with an iron fist.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. _This man is maddening._ “You eschew tyranny, and yet you want to proceed with your little plan. You saw the perils of time magic with your own eyes. No one would blame you from turning back now, especially after acquiring the assistance of the mages. Or is this just a matter of pride?”

The Herald dropped his head and looked right into Dorian. “Listen, Dorian. I understand all of your objections to this plan. For as often as you’ve voiced them, I could recite them to you, from memory, in your exact cadence, _especially_ if that would stop you from repeating them any further. You already know why I’m going through with this plan.“ Yes. Crippling insecurity. “The events in the future have only made me more convinced that we need to follow through with this course of action.”

“And why, pray tell, is that?” 

“If what’s happening at Therinfal is anywhere near as serious as what happened at Redcliffe, then we need to help the Templars.” He looked out over the horizon at the setting sun. “You continue to impress upon me the dangers of time magic, but you mention nothing of what we both know will come to pass if I fail.” The Herald turned back to Dorian, smiling, his eyelids heavy, his eyebrows cocked. _And here it comes._ “Besides, you handled yourself so adeptly in the future. Your expertise saved us, and with not a moment to spare. I’m sure without the looming pressure of the Elder One’s forces bearing down upon us, you’ll perform beautifully.”

 _Damned Herald. Oh, who am I kidding? Damned me!_ For a moment, Dorian regretted how incredible he truly was. 

But only for a moment. 

____

Dorian normally enjoyed goodbyes, if only because it allowed him to temporarily pardon himself from the mediocrity that seemed to surround him at all times. Felix, though, was a different story. 

“Shipping back off to the Imperium? Quite the tedious journey. Do take care of yourself.” Dorian said, his tone light and jovial. _Take care of yourself in the few weeks you have left._

“Of course, Dorian.” Dorian knew Felix understood, and was glad he’d responded in kind. _I’ll be fine, until I’m not. And then I’ll die._

“I’m sure you’ll be busy with sorting your affairs once you return home. What are you going to do? There’s no one to inherit the estate, and I’m sure you’d prefer that it didn’t escheat.”

“Don’t worry, the Magisterium won’t get its hands on my family’s holdings. I’ll get things in order once I get home. Is there anything in particular you’d like me to send to you?”

Dorian’s mind jumped at the idea, but he thought better of handing over a wish list of Alexius’ prized possessions. If he were a lesser man, without the sophisticated etiquette that those of his stature were required to carry themselves with, he’d certainly be chomping at the bit.

“Ransack the library, and make sure they leave not even a sheaf of paper behind. And your father did have that lovely silverite dragon statue, the one that he kept on his desk. I’m not asking you to gift it to me, of course. Just making a suggestion.”

Dorian had spent countless hours in Alexius’ library; his fingerprints probably still lingered on almost every tome within. Sure, Dorian was loath to accept gifts from others, especially when they were unearned, but that wasn’t the case here. Besides, if not Dorian, then who? There were quite a few gems hidden amongst Alexius’ collection – they deserved a better fate than to fall into the hands of a grubby, third-rate Magister plundering the tomb of his exiled brother. 

Felix laughed heartily. “Consider it yours. I take it that means you’ll be staying here?”

“For the time being, yes. I don’t know why I feel obligated to clean up after Tevinter, but since everyone here in the south has been so hospitable -“ Felix feigned surprise at that line, “- I figured I’d mop up the mess our countrymen have made abroad before returning home.”

“That’s just like you, Dorian.”

“What, doing charity for the unwashed masses? My generosity knows no bounds.”

Another laugh. _This is how I’ll remember you. Maybe with a bit more color in your cheeks, but laughing, even at my desperate attempts to make this moment less painful._

“The southerners might be a bit more welcoming if you let them see this side of you. You know, cut back on the sarcasm just a little?” A helpful suggestion, and surely one Dorian should heed. 

“Give it a couple weeks, I’m sure I’ll have these barbarians eating out of the palm of my hand, instead of the palms of their own. I can be quite charming, you know.”

They smiled at one another. They stared in silence, for a moment, as the sun seemed to hover eternally over the horizon, refusing to set. _If only_ , Dorian thought. 

“I should be on my way. Take care of yourself, Dorian.” Felix echoed Dorian’s earlier words.

“I always do.” Dorian said. He felt the sadness well up inside him, sweeping up from the pit of his stomach and clutching at his throat, pushing up towards his eyes. _He doesn’t need to see you cry._

“Farewell, Dorian.” The finality of Felix’s words hit him, the crushing weight of their final goodbye bearing down on Dorian. His mind flew uncontrollably through images of the life Felix would have had, the kind soul that would be taken from this uncaring world, the dreams that would be carried on past the Veil, through the Fade, into the Beyond. 

“Farewell, Felix.” 

Felix turned his back and began to head towards the docks. The light of the dying day reflected off his friend’s nearly translucent skin, his skin radiating gold and light, as if he were a sun himself. Felix was a light that could have shined on Tevinter, on all of Thedas. But all days must end. All suns must set. _Go gently to the Maker’s side, dear friend._

A tear rolled down Dorian’s cheek, the only indulgence he would allow himself.  
_____

They galloped through the night on horseback, keeping a steady pace on their way to the point on the map where they would travel back in time to meet with the rest of the Inquisition’s forces who marched forward to Therinfal. They were accompanied by a small contingent of the Inquisition. Dorian hadn’t quite figured out the rank-and-file, but he assumed they were Leliana’s people – fast, swift, and secretive. 

The Herald was resolute, his face stern and unchanging against the footfalls of the horse that he rode upon and the wind that rushed pashed their faces. 

Dorian looked around to Varric, who gripped the reins of his mount all too tightly, considering that his legs were neither long enough to reach the stirrups, or to provide any sort of grip against the mount when it leapt over the detritus that crossed their path. He chuckled inside himself.

A little further back was Bull, on a considerably larger and sturdier steed. Not that it made much difference – the poor beast looked like it had been riding all day in the blazing heat of the sun, straining to keep pace with the other horses in spite of the horned burden it carried on its back.

_The Herald should have taken that horse instead – both stubborn, determined, and being crushed under the weight of their circumstances._

“So, Sparkler,” Varric managed over the chorus of the breeze and all the noises of the forest it carried with it. “Are you sure you can manage this time magic without, you know, ripping the world to shreds?”

“He did it once before, he can do it again.” The Herald’s head shot back over his shoulder. _Easy now. No one was questioning your plan._

“Varric, even if, for argument’s sake, I did manage to break time, I guarantee you that it would a much more graceful show than someone ripping the pages out of one of your lesser-appreciated works.” 

“Don’t get too confident, Sparkler. You didn’t seem too pleased, having to do this once before.” 

“Anything for our _dear Herald_.” Dorian let the sarcasm flow freely from his mouth. He could have sworn that he saw the Herald’s head shake side to side, but with them both bouncing up and down on their horses, it was nearly impossible to tell.

“So, Dorian.” Bull shouted from behind them. “What’s it like? Traveling through time? Is there anything we should be prepared for?”

“To be honest, it all happened so quickly, I hardly noticed we’d gone anywhere at all. Although, if I do recall – tell me, have you ever been kicked in the jewels?” Dorian asked, his eyes feigning an innocent curiosity, staring back at the Bull. 

“Is that what it feels like, when you go through?” Bull asked, his brow furrowing in displeasure.

“No, not at all.” Dorian smiled back. “Again, it all happened very fast – it was like stepping through a doorway. You don’t really notice that you’ve changed places. I suppose it did make my toes tingle a bit, like when your foot’s fallen asleep after having your leg crossed for several minutes.”

“I’ll take that over the jewels,” The Bull muttered. 

“As would I. I assure you, there is nothing to worry about.” Dorian said, hoping that the false sincerity in his voice would be transform in the wind to something that sounded more true, evading the detection of the Ben-Hassrath’s keen ears.

He turned back to face forward. The Herald’s hair had come undone from the normally stern bun in which he kept it, and the silvery-blond strands danced in the moonlight. It flowed, straight and true, until it reached its ends, where it curled in rebellion against the force of the wind. 

Dorian thought back to before the events at Redcliffe, and the Herald’s teasing, naughty comment. Prostrate himself? Ha! The sentiment may have made him a little weak in the knees at that particular moment, but he would bow to no man, especially one who seemed as cocksure as the Herald. 

_You don’t think he couldn’t work that magic again? Knock you on your ass and have you dreaming up all the blasphemous ways in which you could single-handedly desecrate the light of Andraste’s grace?_

Dorian smacked himself back to reality. The Herald never had an issue turning Dorian’s own humor back on him. Maybe it was less a proposition, and more a perfunctory reflection of Dorian’s earlier comment. That seemed likely enough. The Herald had shown varying shades of political savvy, but entangling himself, even for a one-night stand, with a dread Magister from Tevinter? The very idea should be enough to give even the most inept of leaders pause.

Dorian stared after the man, his shoulders tucked down, the curvature of his back leading to the impeccably trim waist, the tail of his coat blowing in the wind, allowing Dorian to sneak a peak at the Herald’s ass, so pert and taut. 

_You might want to stop with that thought before your pants get any tighter, Pavus. Unless you want this ride to become significantly more uncomfortable._ Dorian shifted on his saddle as best he could. 

Still, there was a loose end, drifting in front of him, teasing him. It begged him to reach out and hold on, to follow it and see where it might lead.

_Or I could pull, and the whole thing might unravel._

Their horses slowed to a trot. They’d reached their destination.

____

They set up camp for the night, tucked away from the main road. The Herald had decided they needed at least a few hours’ rest before attempting to walk through time, considering they would be looking at a long march towards Therinfal tomorrow. Leliana’s people made themselves scarce. Dorian was convinced they’d scaled the trees, setting up an invisible perimeter around the campsite. His suspicions were confirmed when he felt wards sealing around them, cozying up against his own, an added layer of protection against predators or ne’er-do-wells who might wander between these trees in the dark of night.

 _So Sister Nightingale has a few mages in her ranks?_ He smiled at the thought. The woman was shrewd enough to understand that there were a million tools one could use to skin a nug, and she didn’t carry the deep-seated southern prejudice against mages. A few of them amongst her agents surely proved invaluable. 

_I’ll have to talk to her back at Haven. See if there aren’t any useful tricks I might pass along to her underlings._

It was the least he could do, considering her sacrifice in the future. She bought Dorian and the Herald just enough time to make it back to the present in once piece. Dorian knew the husk of a woman who greeted them in Redcliffe castle was a being separate from the Leliana of the present, but he couldn’t seem to reconcile his feelings of gratitude, which spilled over to this moment in time. He supposed there were worse things he could be carrying back with him from the future.

The group ate around the campfire, in relative silence, save for the chewing sounds emanating from Bull, whose lack of manners was wholly unsurprising. Dorian watched him for a moment as he tore through his meal with the ferocity of a High Dragon about to give birth to her clutch. Dorian shrugged to himself, thinking better than to try and teach a savage how to chew without exposing the contents of your mouth to the rest of the world. 

Varric turned in quickly after dinner, “I’ve got some paperwork here that had to be sent out yesterday. Luckily, we’ll be making a stop there tomorrow, so it’ll arrive right on time.” 

Dorian would have laughed if he’d found time magic the least bit funny.

The Bull and the Herald sat around the campfire with him. They all should have turned in with Varric, but Dorian was hoping for a moment alone with the Herald, and the Bull – well, Maker knew what he was sitting around for. Probably to pry some more secrets out of the Herald for his Ben-Hassrath reports. Dorian was sure Bull had already scribed a novella for his Qunari superiors, all about the Venatori, and the Tevinter mage aiding the Inquisition, using magic that never should have existed in the first place.

“So, Dorian, I was thinking,” The Herald’s voice hung over the campfire. “About time magic.” _Wonderful._ “Do you think that our future selves have already met the Inquisition in the past, and that we are already on our way to Therinfal Redoubt in the present?”

Dorian’s eyes stuck on Bull, who picked at his ear in an undignified manner, as if the conversation held as much interest to him as a muffled debate on the latest Orlesian fashions. If he was paying attention for the sake of the Ben-Hassrath, he certainly wasn’t giving it away. 

“Well, I would suppose that if it works the same as it did when we departed from the future, then no, we haven’t yet met them, and they’ve pressed on to Therinfal without us. The future that we saw had happened, regardless of the fact that we managed to get back to our time and prevent it from ever happening in the first place.” Dorian said, academically.

“Fair point.” The Herald conceded. Bull finished picking at whatever body part he moved on to, and clapped his legs on his thighs as he stood up. Had his curiosity been sated, or did the basic questions relating to time travel simple bore him to exhaustion?

“Alright, boys. I’m off to bed. Boss,” he nodded politely at the Herald. “Dorian,” he made a similar bow of the head to Dorian.

_Maybe those tamassrans do teach manners, after all._

“Goodnight,” the pair’s voices echoed against each other, and off of the trunks of the trees, as Bull unfurled the flaps of the tent wide enough so he could get his horns through.

The pair stared at the fire in silence for a few minutes. Dorian felt the tension welling up inside of him, bubbling underneath the surface. _Great time to find yourself at a loss for words, Pavus. Alone with the Herald, wondering what his intentions are, and you can’t find even a coy remark to dangle in front of him, see if he bites?_

“It occurs to me that I never apologized to you for putting you in this position.” The Herald said.

 _Not what I was expecting_ , Dorian thought. Regardless, he was thankful that the Herald had done something to break the silence.

“I beg your pardon?” Dorian asked, as if he didn’t already have a list of things for which the Herald should be apologizing. _Dragging me into this mess, forcing me to use time magic, making me think of how my face would feel buried in between your legs._

“I realize that none of this must be easy for you. You’re a Tevinter mage, miles from home, in a land full of people to whom you are the monster out of a fairy tale. You’ve had to deal with losing a mentor, and a friend, all in one fell swoop. And then tomorrow, you’ll be sending us back through time, against your better judgment, for which I am most sorry.”

Apparently he had been keeping a list as well. Dorian looked at the Herald, whose eyes looked despondent into the flames, as if looking Dorian in the face was beyond his capabilities. 

Dorian cleared his throat. “Well, I should like to think that I’ve suffered these indignities as gracefully as possible. I understand that there are many reasons why you southerners should be suspicious of a lone Tevinter offering his assistance to you, but I hope that I’ve proven that my intentions are genuine. I want to help stop whatever madness my countrymen have wrought, and I won’t leave until I’ve seen this through.”

“Yes, of course, and I thank you for that. I suppose, then, I’m also sorry if you felt that you had to prove your intentions. You’ve been invaluable to the Inquisition, especially at Redcliffe, and even moreso when we were stranded in the future. I don’t doubt that you have been straightforward from the beginning.” He was looking at Dorian, that honest confidence in his eyes. 

“Well, I’m certainly glad that you can recognize value.” Dorian teased.

“Is that as close as I’ll get to you accepting my apology?” The Herald smarted back.

Dorian saw his opportunity. “I’m sure you could get a little closer.” His eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, and he pulled the corners of his lips up into the vaguest hint of a smile. 

The Herald bowed his head, staring down at the ground. When he picked it back up, he was smiling, his teeth gleaming. 

“No one’s ever accused you of being coy, have they?” The Herald asked, a laugh tugging at the edge of his words. Dorian’s carefully arranged features broke into broad smile against his better judgment. The Herald leaned forward. “I find that my mind has been rather occupied, as of late. The Breach and all that came after.” He looked down at his hand. The Mark flickered. Dorian wanted desperately to see it up close, to grab the Herald’s hand in between his own and study it for hours. _For purely academic reasons, of course._

“But it wanders, from time to time.” The Herald smiled into the fire, the light playing with his features, shading his cheekbones in a way that Dorian found oddly magical. “And on occasion –“ The Herald looked up, meeting Dorian’s gaze, the light and the heat emanating off of him, the magic of the moment beyond anything conjured from the Fade, _just say it already!_

A howl ripped through the quiet of the night, followed by the sound of an arrow flying through the air and the hot, wet noise of it piercing its target. 

And the spell was broken.

Not even a moment later, one of Leliana’s scouts emerged from the shadows. “Sorry, sir. A wolf wandered too close to the campsite. It seems that the beast was traveling alone. Nothing more to worry about.”

The Herald gathered his face, still warm and kind, but different, the face he needed the people to see. “Thank you, soldier.”

“You are welcome, sir. Have a good night’s rest.” And the scout melted back into the shadows, as if he’d never been there at all.

The Herald turned his head to Dorian. He raised his eyebrows, drew his lips tight over his teeth, and exhaled. 

“I suppose we should turn in. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.” The Herald smiled politely.

“You’re probably right. I ought to rest up. I am the one upon whom the success of your little plan rests, after all.” Dorian dusted himself off as he stood up.

“I’m sure you’ll perform beautifully.” The Herald added, a jovial tone in his voice. 

Dorian turned towards his tent, cursing the wildlife of southern Thedas, making a mental note to hold accountable all wolves for the affront that Dorian suffered at the hands of their now-deceased brother. _I won’t rest until they are all dead, so none will have to suffer, as I have._ He was only half-joking.

“Dorian?” The Herald’s voice called from behind. Dorian turned at the waist, glancing over his shoulder at the Herald, who stood with the flap of his tent open. He was just far enough from the campfire that his face was still illuminated by the flame, dull orange warmth against the cold black night.

“On occasion, my mind sometimes wanders to you.” He smiled impishly. “Good night.” In one graceful move, he was in his tent, the flap swaying behind him.

Dorian felt the warmth spread through his chest. Had the magic really ever left?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad that I had a way to positively express my hatred for wolves in DA:I. Please be advised that no real animals were harmed in the making of this fic.
> 
> Also, yay law school for coming in handy with that estate planning language. If you haven't googled it yet, "escheat" (v.) is when your estate passes back to the state (in this case, the Magisterium) due to a lack of heirs. Now that I think about it, I'm sure Felix would have some cousins or relatives close enough to be considered heirs. This question will HAUNT ME for the next week.


	5. The Amulet of Time

The morning seemed to come all too soon. It would have helped if Dorian had actually slept, instead of endlessly pondering the Herald’s parting words.

_My mind sometimes wanders to you._

What did those words even mean? Thinking of Dorian how? How he was a lone Tevinter dissenter in the south, standing up against the machinations of the Venatori? That his knowledge and talent would allow the Herald to break a million and one taboos and travel through time? Or was his mind drifting in the same direction as Dorian’s, to impure thoughts of breathless trysts in the shadows of the cells underneath the Chantry in Haven?

_None of that will matter if you fail your task today. The only thing you’ll be pondering then is if the Herald can even think about you at all, after you reduced him to a fine paste._

Dorian’s mind had finally exhausted itself, and he felt himself drift away into sleep.

___

 

“Master Pavus? Are you awake, sir?”

Dorian’s head swam. He’d been dreaming that he was back in his childhood bed in Qarinus, with its silken sheets and overlarge, overstuffed mattress. He looked around a bit, his vision still blurry, his eyes rejecting to the cool light of morning. His eyes adjusted, and he rolled over, peeking through the slit in his eyes, to the shape of Leliana’s agent standing against the light streaming in from the entrance to his tent.

The groan escaped his lips unconsciously. “Unfortunately!” He muttered.

“Alright, sir.” The soldier was tying back the flap of the tent. _How bloody helpful._ Clearly, the young man didn’t want him going back to sleep. Dorian rolled onto his back, supporting himself on his elbows. He lifted his hand to his eyes and rubbed the sleep out of them impatiently. He yawned uncontrollably. “The Herald wants to move out soon.”

Dorian was still heavy with fatigue, and though he wanted nothing more than to roll back over and rest for just a bit longer, he knew that wasn’t a possibility. The Herald wouldn’t accept delays – more opportunities for the group to raise objections, to try and turn him from his course. 

“I was hoping that I would have time to bathe.” Dorian wondered aloud.

“I’m sure the Herald would prefer-“ The soldier started. 

“I know what the Herald would prefer, however, I would like a few minutes to clean myself up. On the off chance that I fail and kill us all, we’ll all be meeting the Maker, and I wouldn’t want to do that with grime underneath my fingernails.”

“I… I will ask the Herald, sir.” He bowed politely and turned to leave.

“Don’t ask, just tell!” Dorian called out after him. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He loathed the cold water of the south, but was grateful that a quick dip in a cool stream would help wake him up. He leaned over towards his bag and dragged it close to him, fiddling through the various pockets to find where he kept his soap. He’d run out of the good stuff long ago, but the merchant at Haven, Segritt, had some passable alternatives. Sure, he charged an arm and a leg, but Dorian just assumed he was getting the special ‘discount’ reserved for Tevinters. Normally, Dorian wouldn’t think twice about spending a fortune for toiletries, but his pockets were no longer lined with his Father’s gold, and the sheer misery of dealing with someone as _delightfully_ personable as Segritt should have been payment enough, without him jacking up the prices for ‘imported goods.’

And by ‘imported goods,’ he meant Dorian.

Dorian pulled himself out of his bedroll and cursed the hard grounds for the pain in his lower back. He groped around in the morning light for his pants, and heaved himself up to slip them on. He sat back down to pull his boots on, only buckling the very bottom clasp, considering he’d be prying them off in the next 10 minutes, or however long it took to make it to the nearest stream. 

He walked out of his tent, the bright light of the morning breaking through the canopy of leaves, dousing the camp in soft yellow tones. Varric and Bull were sitting by the remnant of the fire. Varric was busying his stubby fingers trying to tie a small sheaf of parchment to the leg of one of Leliana’s messenger crows. Bull was busy fussing over the massive axe in his hands, polishing it from top to bottom with military precision. _A Qunari morning ritual?_ Dorian wondered. Or maybe Vivienne’s influence had managed to take hold, like a slow-acting poison.

Dorian saw the Herald, sitting cross-legged inside of his tent, within the shadow cast by the flap, but close enough to its edge that the light illuminated his more prominent features. His dark eyes trailed Dorian, who abruptly looked away, trying to find whichever one of Leliana’s agents had awoken him earlier.

“Master Pavus?” Dorian spun around. “Here.“ He handed Dorian a terrycloth rag that he assumed was supposed to serve as a towel. “There’s a stream not far from here, to the north. I’ll show you the way.”

“Did the Herald also ask that you watch me intently to make sure I don’t run off?” Dorian asked, unconcerned with how far his voice might carry.

“The Herald only asks that you don’t take too long.”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware that my bathing habits were that high on the Herald’s list of concerns.” Dorian asked, his tone even more elevated than before. He saw Varric’s shoulders shake slightly with laughter out of the corner of his eye.

“I believe his exact words were, ‘Scrub for success, not for the Maker.’” The scout delivered the line stone-faced, without a hint of irony or humor. Dorian wondered for a moment whether Leliana had sent her scouts to the Ben-Hassrath for training.

“Fine. Lead the way.” 

___

 

Dorian and the scout had been walking through the forest in silence for a short time, when the scout stopped and pointed. 

“The stream is just over that small ridge. I’ll remain here, so that if anything should happen-“ 

“Yes, yes, I’ll scream, you’ll come running, all fine and good.” Dorian cut him off as he marched away. He climbed up the gently sloping embankment to its crest, and sure enough, the stream lay just beyond the tree line, babbling gently against the stones that lined its banks.

Dorian turned around to peer over the lip of the ridge. The scout had politely turned his back to the ridge, allowing Dorian some modicum of privacy. _Small favors_ , Dorian thought. He walked towards the water, stopping near a conveniently placed log. He sat down, pulling of his undershirt and yanking his feet from his boots without undoing the buckles. He looked around for a moment, to check his surroundings, before sliding off his pants and undergarments in one motion.

He waded slowly into the river, soap in hand. The water was cold, and he still hadn’t acclimated to the southern climate. The crystal-clear water moved slowly, pulling against his legs, and the silt of the bed of the stream was soft underneath his feet. He breathed deeply as he maneuvered deeper into the water. He stopped when the water hit his waist, and exhaled slowly as he felt the coldness of the water creep up his body.

He took a deep breath and pinched his nose before he dunked himself back into the stream. The water was cold, but not unbearable. Still, Dorian wasn’t planning on staying in the stream for much longer than he had to, even if it irked him that the faster he finished, the more pleased the Herald would be. He picked himself up out of the water and felt it roll down his body, from his head, down his chest and back. He shivered lightly and rubbed the water out of his eyes. His drew a sharp, shallow breath, the cold pressing in on his lungs, when he heard footsteps in the underbrush. 

He turned in the direction of the sound, splashing a great deal of water about. _Excellent, Pavus. Might as well shoot a fireball straight into the air, alert all the inhabitants of the forest, ‘I’m bathing naked in the river! Come and get me!’_

The Herald stood by the log upon which Dorian’s clothing lay. Dorian suddenly felt much warmer, but whether that heat was due to embarrassment or unadulterated rage, he could not decide. He wasn’t going to let the Herald get the first word.

“Come to sneak a peek? Seems sort of unfair, catching me when you know my pants would be down.” Dorian huffed quietly to himself, staring defiantly at the Herald. _The nerve of this man!_

The Herald stood there, smiling down at Dorian. The heat he was feeling? Rage. Definitely rage. The Herald chuckled lightly to himself. And then he removed his shirt.

Dorian had imagined what lied underneath all that armor more times than he would care to admit, to himself or to anyone else. Dorian watched, as if overtaken by a blood mage, unable to turn his head. _Unable or unwilling?_

The bottom of the Herald’s undershirt drifted up over his top of his pants. Dorian caught a peek of the trail running from the Herald’s belly button, over the contour of his lower abdominals, disappearing into his trousers. The shirt pulled further, revealing the Herald’s sturdy, solid, well-defined stomach, framed by his taut oblique muscles. Further still, over his pectorals, and the line between them. Dorian imagined his finger running over the jagged line, tracing its imperfections, before finding its way to more exciting places. 

What had been a moment that felt like hours ended when the Herald pulled the shirt over his head, and tossed it carelessly over the log. His eyes flicked up to Dorian’s, warm and inviting in the morning light. He kicked off his boots with a casual flick of his heels, and pulled his hair out of the topknot, letting it cascade down the side of his face, casually pulling the errant strands that had fallen over his eyes and tucking them behind his ears. His eyes met Dorian’s again, and the warm invitation had vanished, replaced by a cold, controlled blaze. 

_Was this a striptease?_ Dorian wondered. The Herald smiled. 

“Care to turn around, so I can finish this?” 

“Where are my manners? Certainly.” Dorian replied, not missing a beat. He may have been hypnotized, but he’d forced himself to maintain enough awareness so the Herald wouldn’t get the upper hand. He turned carefully in the water to face away from the Herald.

He heard the slide against fabric on skin, a quick, fast tug, and the sound of leather hitting the ground. A few short strides in the grass and he heard the Herald’s foot dip into the water, followed by a quick breath sucked between teeth.

“Shit!” The Herald yelped. “You could have warned me!”

“Warned you about what? I was almost certain that I’d made at least several comments about the unwelcoming temperatures of the south. What made you think this stream was a warm bath?” Dorian shot over his shoulder, unable to see the Herald out of the corner of his eye.

The Herald sighed, disappointed. “Oh well,” he said, and quickly waded his way into the stream, his breath shallow and staccato. The sounds of water splashing against the encroachment that was the Herald stopped. “You can turn around now.” 

Dorian rolled his eyes, and turned halfway. He caught a glimpse of the Herald. The heat rose up again. Drops of water clung to the Herald’s torso. His arms were crossed against his chest, clasped against the cold. The morning light shone through the canopy and twinkled off the water, against the muscles and the taut skin, the full lips, the eyes that narrowed in reaction to the sudden brightness.

The Herald smiled. Dorian posited that he must have learned, well enough at least, that people enjoyed his smile. It was a weapon in an arsenal that he used to disarm. Dorian pretended to himself that awareness of its intended purpose rendered him immune to its effects, but that was a bald-faced lie.

“You’ve already dunked under. Not too bad?” The Herald asked, still smiling. 

_Damned idiot._ “It was necessary. And necessity is rarely enjoyable.” 

The Herald chuckled. “Alright then.” Dorian’s body was locked in total control. _If you look below his chin, Pavus, no visiting the tavern after you get back to Haven for a week!_ The Herald dropped, straight into the cold water, in a gracefully fluid motion. He shot back up but a moment later, dripping wet, with his hair covering the entirety of his face. 

_Well, if he can’t see me looking, then he gains no ground in our little war._ Besides, it wasn’t as if Dorian had the self-discipline to avoid the tavern for that long.

He glistened gloriously, with the water working its way down his figure. Every ripple of his muscles was amplified, every sinew highlighted by the liquid film that coated him. He pushed his hair back, slick against his head, and breathed in deeply before he let out a light, breathy laugh. He rubbed his eyes.

 _And look away_ , Dorian thought. He absent-mindedly began to work the soap in between his hands to generate a lather, working it up towards his elbows, twisting his forearms to ensure that he covered every inch of his skin. The Herald, for his part, had remained relatively quiet. Dorian turned his head slightly and allowed his eyes to travel down, and sweep over the Herald’s body, up to his face. 

The Herald stood, the water lapping at his waist gently, his eyes transfixed on Dorian. He shivered lightly, but a small flame flickered behind his eyes. 

“Is something the matter?” Dorian asked.

“I forgot my soap.” The Herald smiled sheepishly. “I was wondering if I could borrow yours? When you’ve finished, of course.”

Dorian hadn’t recalled an earlier moment in his life in which he’d been so envious of a bar of soap. “I suppose, but I spent a considerable sum acquiring this from Segritt. I expect you’ll replace whatever you use?”

“Oh, I will. Tenfold. I’ll speak with Josephine.”

“Just one will be satisfactory. I appreciate the hospitality, all things considered,” Dorian sighed, _considering I’ve received so much hospitality from the people of Haven_ , “but I won’t take advantage.”

The Herald stared, as if puzzled by Dorian’s reaction.

“The evil Tevinter magister worms his way into the Inquisition’s ranks, and soon after, the Herald is making extravagant gifts of fragrant soaps,” Dorian framed the hypothetical scenario. “The only possibility anyone would bother considering would be blood magic.” 

The Herald’s face softened with understanding. “One bar. I’ll take care of it personally.”

“Thank you,” Dorian said, as he scrubbed down the remainder of his chest. His hands dove underwater, scrubbing the soap against his legs and feet, knowing that it would hardly be effective as stepping out of the stream and rubbing himself down. However, he wasn’t about to stand naked in front of the Herald, and he wanted desperately to get out of the stream as fast as possible. He was careful, rubbing the soap against his privates, attempting to insure that the act did not look too lascivious. 

All that was left was his back. He could get his lower back easily enough, twisting his arms around to reach as much as he could. 

“Here. Let me help.” The Herald’s voice, the sound of water resisting his movement towards Dorian.

Dorian rolled his head gracefully over his shoulder, his eye catching the Herald standing behind him, hand outstretched. He turned. The physical proximity of the pair washed away all the coldness of the water and the cool morning air. Everything was heat and fire. Dorian’s hand reached out and placed the bar in the Herald’s hand. The contact of their hands was electric. Dorian looked up.

“It sort of defeats the purpose if you’re facing me, don’t you think?”

Dorian rolled his eyes and turned around, breathlessly waiting for the contact of the Herald’s hand. And it came, gentle and caressing, slowly rubbing circles into Dorian’s shoulders. Dorian’s head began to tilt back slightly, but he quickly caught himself and stopped his visceral reaction to the Herald’s touch. It was painful to deny how wonderful this felt. The Herald’s other hand grabbed on to Dorian’s shoulder, his palm kneading into the muscle, the tension releasing and building simultaneously. 

He moved slowly across Dorian’s back, a delicate arc, sweeping lower and lower across Dorian’s muscles. He switched hands, mirroring the motion, massaging Dorian’s other shoulder. Dorian was intently focused on his own breath, as to not lose control, tempering the flames that were building in between his thighs. _Careful Pavus, or you won’t be able to walk out of the water until you calm down._

The Herald’s touch was surprisingly delicate, circling, further, until he was in the small of Dorian’s back, hovering over the dimples above Dorian’s ass. Dorian’s eyes were wide, determined. _This was torture._

The Herald’s hand broke free. “All finished.” 

_Hardly_ , Dorian thought. He slipped down into the water, to wash the suds from his skin. He tilted his head back, ever so slightly, hoping to come into contact with any part of the Herald, to feel the current course through him if only for a moment. He opened his eyes and found the Herald staring down at him, a smirk on his face, framed by the leaves on the branches that hung heavily above the stream.

Dorian picked himself up, and turned. “Thank you,” he muttered, his voice low and controlled. 

“You’re welcome.” The Herald’s eyes were warm, but his mouth pulled a little too taut. _He was pleased with himself_. All the faculties that Dorian had lost moments ago snapped back. He would have offered to provide the Herald similar assistance, but he thought better of it now. Washing the Herald’s back would be giving him what he wanted. 

Dorian’s mind raced. How could he repay the Herald for this gesture? The Herald had won the night, but the morning after was the better victory. His mind arrived at an idea. _Perfect._

“Well, I should dry myself off and get myself together for the day. Thank you again.” Dorian smiled, trying his best to emulate genuine thankfulness. He turned and walked out of the water, feeling it fall away underneath him, exposing his backside to the Herald shamelessly. 

He walked over to the log, and grabbed the small square of terrycloth. He rubbed his arms and chest, trailing down to his stomach quickly. He hoped the Herald was still staring. He trailed the cloth against his back, and noticed that likely, it wouldn’t hold much more water. He quickly wrung out the cloth. _Alright, Pavus._

He moved the cloth to his backside, careful to move slowly, but not too slowly as to be suspicious. He made sure the towel only ever covered a portion of his behind, so a part of him was always in view. He moved towards his right like, faster now, bending at his waist, lowering his torso, following the line of his leg towards the ground.

His head was far enough down that he could sneak a peak in between his legs, to the spot in which the Herald was last standing. 

The world may have been upside down, but one thing was certain: The Herald was standing, frozen, jaw slightly open, eyes wide, at the sight in front of him.

_Success._

Dorian moved from his right foot to his left, trailing the same path he’d traveled down his other leg, but in reverse. Dorian reveled in his little victory, knowing that he was dangling something irresistible in front of the Herald. 

He stood up straight, and moved towards his clothing. He grabbed for his undershirt first, so the Herald could maintain a view of Dorian’s ass for as long as possible. _Torture, I suppose_ , Dorian thought, _to be so close to perfection, and being unable to reach out and touch._

Once he had slid the shirt over his head, the light linens clinging to his still-moist body, he grabbed for his pants. He would change his undergarments back at camp, so he fished the pair he had worn to the stream out of his pants, and bent once more, this time, less dramatically, in order to put them on. He wondered if the Herald was still looking, as he pulled them up his legs and over his ass. 

He turned to sit on the log, not looking up at the stream. _Don’t give yourself away just yet, Pavus._ He picked one leg up, crossing it over the other, so that he might wipe the detritus from the riverbank off his feet before putting on his boot. He cautioned a glance over towards the Herald, who had turned slightly, scrubbing away at his body feverishly. His gaze was still affixed on Dorian, his eyes narrowed, his mouth a grim line.

 _Congratulations. You beat the Herald of Andraste. A feat no other Tevinter can claim!_ Dorian laughed inside himself. He put his foot into his boot, careful to buckle each buckle as he made his way to the top, savoring his victory. He crossed his legs again, to clean off his other foot.

He gingerly nestled his foot into his other boot. It was then he noticed a pair of feet, naked and wet, standing not a foot from him, carefully planted in between the spread of his legs.

His stomach dropped. _Oh, no._

All of the joy he had felt deflated when his face jerked upwards, to find the Herald’s smile waiting for him. 

“They gave me a bigger towel. Your hair is still wet. Here.” His hand reached out, waist level, at Dorian.

_Well, Pavus. This is your own fault. Couldn’t just accept your victory, no, you had to gloat._

His eyes left the Herald’s face, quickly scanning down the rest of his body to find the towel he was offering. 

Dorian’s face was perfectly relaxed as to not belie even an ounce of the fire that was consuming him, something between passion and the humiliation of defeat. 

His eyes met the towel in the Herald’s right hand. Dorian’s insides screamed, rallying every ounce of his self-control. _Do. Not. Look. Right._ But he did.

He was eye-level with the Herald’s manhood. Like overripe fruit on the vine, it hung in front of him, succulent, magnificent. Dorian felt his lips part and the air escape his lips in a slow, hot breath.

_No!_

His mouth slammed shut and his face turned upward, towards the Herald’s smug little smirk. _He was pleased with himself._

__________

Dorian was still sore from losing his little gamble this morning, but he was about to take a much bigger one. He sighed at the thought. 

They had packed up their camp, and made their way back towards the road, to the spot where they were supposed to meet the rest of the Inquisition, a little under a day ago. 

The Herald was stern again, a wholly different man than the flirtatious creature that joined him in the stream earlier in the morning.

Bull and Varric shifted from one leg to the next, both standing with their arms folded over their puffed out chests, afraid that their stern countenances might crack and reveal their anxiety. _And all they have to do is stand still. How horrifying!_

Dorian stared off into the distance, preparing himself for the spell. Sure, he’d managed to work the complicated magic in a far more strenuous situation, but even though he’d never admit it, he was assuming luck had played a large role in his success. Or maybe the Herald’s luck had just rubbed off on him. 

_Oh yes, I’m sure his luck is what he'd like to rub off on me._

Dorian rolled his eyes and tried to push the thought out of his mind, but he couldn’t. Not after this morning’s game of naked chicken. Which one of them would break first? Dorian was ashamed it had been him. He wanted to wipe the Herald’s smug smirk off his face. And how.

Templars. Time Magic. The Lord Seeker. Saving the world. Right.

The Herald had told Leliana’s people to give them space, so that in case anything should happen, they didn’t find themselves reduced to a puddle of used-to-be flesh. They were sufficiently removed from the quartet, a few hundred yards away, watching intently.

The Herald turned towards Dorian. “Are you ready?”

Dorian looked at Bull and Varric. “Any last-minute objections you’d like to voice?”

“I still think this is a bad idea.” Varric said.

“Me, too.” Bull added.

“That makes three.” Dorian said.

“Overruled,” the Herald closed the debate.

“Well that’s that, then.” Dorian sighed. He pulled Alexius’ pendant from the pocket inside his robe. He held it out in his right hand, his staff hovering just above the ground in his left.

“I still can’t believe you managed to squeeze the power to control time into an unassuming amulet. Seems like it should be something greater than that.” Varric said, nervous amusement coloring his tone.

“That was the point, really – if the object was too large, or too obvious, then half the Magisterium would have sent assassins our way in an attempt to get their filthy claws on the thing.” Dorian said, as he closed his eyes, trying to focus. 

“Yeah, and then Alexius goes and brings it right to the Venatori,” Bull added derisively. 

Dorian whipped his head around, “Would you like to make it through this process alive, or do you have some sort of death wish of which I’d been previously unaware?” 

“Not really.” Bull added, realizing his mistake.

“So then, if you would, cease the commentary and let me focus on the matter at hand.” Dorian snapped. He was genuinely irritated, but he felt the heat under his high collar – he was just as nervous as they were.

He pushed and pulled at the Fade, feeling it ebb and flow into the amulet slowly, as it began to emanate a gentle green light. It levitated from his hand, glowing brighter and brighter. The Fade swirled, in concentric circles, looping around, pulling all of the dissonant pieces of the Fade into the space in front of them. 

Dorian remembered the pages and pages he’d written, trying to break this process into the smallest, most digestible pieces. In the margins of the paper coated in terminology so complex it was nigh incomprehensible, he’d written three words: how he would explain to a child the exquisite technique that he had crafted to tear down the walls of time itself.

_Swirl. Squish. Pop._

And that’s what he did. The dark green circles rippled out in the air in front of him, the smaller consumed by the larger, as the Fade roiled around them. Cracking the door open? That was easy. Finding the right moment to step into – now that was the challenge. Dorian had technically only done this once before, so it wasn’t easy for him to explain exactly how one pinpointed the moment in time in which one would jump – just that you began to feel the space beyond the portal move backwards, slow at first, then fast like a river. It would be all too easy to push too far back, to have to stop the process and start all over again, if he even could. 

He saw, beyond the portal, the sunrise consumed by the horizon and the shadows of last night stretch over the plains in the distance. The moon glistened; shining opalescent in the sky amongst a million stars, before the night unfell and the sunset replaced it, rising high in the sky, transforming into a brilliant midday. _Careful, now._

The trick with stopping on a specific spot was to not interrupt the flow too quickly – that’s how Dorian managed to save himself and the Herald from certain doom when Alexius had tried to erase the Herald from history, even though he wasn’t sure where they’d end up. _More of the Herald’s luck._ He began to pull back gently, the flow steadying from a current to a trickle, and then to nothing at all.

There.

Dorian turned his head, and shouted over his shoulder. “Now would be the time to hold on to me!” 

He felt Bull’s hand slide onto his shoulder, as gently as a light breeze, before clamping down. Varric’s hand grabbed on to Dorian’s belt, almost like a small child. Dorian would have laughed, if he’d actually been in the position to think about anything other than the magic whirling in front of his face.

Dorian looked left to the Herald, who sidled up to him and wrapped his hand around Dorian’s. His eyes met the Herald’s, who smiled earnestly. 

Pulling himself away from the distraction at his side, Dorian tugged gently at the Fade and the portal in front of them slipped closer, easing the four of them through. 

It felt different than the last time he’d worked the magic. Maybe it was because this time, he’d only had to move the group back a day, instead of a whole year. Maybe it was because this time, the only pressure he felt was internal, without the Elder One’s minions rushing at them. He didn’t even feel the tingling in his feet.

The portal dissolved, shrinking back down, the mists of the Fade dissipating into the air around them. The amulet floated gently back down to Dorian’s palm, unassuming as it had ever been. 

“You can all let go now.” He said, mildly agitated that they’d been clutching onto him like frightened toddlers. He swore Bull had almost broken his collarbone. He made a mental note to check for bruising later. The Herald’s hand left his, and his eyes drifted to their surroundings.

The Bull broke the silence, his voice curious. “It looks just like it did.”

“I should hope it does. Unless something happened between now and tomorrow, it should all look exactly the same. Oh, wait –“ His voice switched to sudden shock “- Bull, your horns! They've vanished!”

“Very funny.” The Qunari’s eye narrowed viciously at Dorian. Dorian noticed the warrior tilt his head ever so slightly to confirm that the weight of his horns was still present on his head.

“It felt like… sinking into water that’s as warm as you are. You hardly feel it at all…” Varric groped for a description. _I wonder if he’ll include this in his inevitable follow up to ‘Tales of the Champion.’ ‘Hymns of the Herald,’ perhaps?_

“Where are the Inquisition forces?” The Herald asked plaintively. There was an edge of nervousness in his voice. 

“I thought it best to send us back a bit before the Inquisition is supposed to arrive. Considering very few people know about the plan, it would be best to be as discreet as possible – appearing in front of the entirety of the Inquisition forces, from a swirling green portal, all of you groping me? Maker knows what they would assume.”

Varric and Bull shot eachother a look. “Blood magic,” they said in unison. Dorian rolled his eyes, and looked to the Herald, who had started up the road to where the Inquisition would eventually emerge.

“I would suggest not doing that!” Dorian called after him. “Maker forbid something went wrong, it would be best if we all stayed together.” The Herald stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Besides, we agreed to meet here. There wouldn’t be much of a point in declaring a meeting place if we go wandering off, now would there?”

The Herald cast his gaze downward to the ground, clearly swallowing his eagerness. He turned and walked back to the group.

“How long, do you think, before they arrive?” He asked.

“I’d say about an hour.” The Herald’s face contorted with the frustration of a child who didn’t like being told he had to wait. 

“Then we’ve got time to kill! Anyone up for a game of Wicked Grace?” He fished a deck of cards out of one of his pockets – _Figures he’d have one on hand at all times_ – and walked over to a nearby log. Bull followed, sitting on the ground beside him.

Dorian looked over at the Herald. He caught sight of the tension in his eyes, and understood. This was his gambit, and he knew the price of his failure. The Herald looked up at Dorian. Dorian shrugged, and nodded his head towards their companions.

“If we’re lost in time, losing a few sovereigns won’t leave us any worse for wear.”

The Herald smiled, but it failed to reach his eyes. Dorian knew he wouldn’t relax until they were on their way to Therinfal. Dorian turned to join Varric and Bull, and the Herald followed. _Just keep his mind off it, for a moment. It’s the least you can do._

_Other than dragging us back through time._

___

 

Dorian had lost track of how long they had been playing, and how many of his sovereigns he had lost to the dwarf. Bull was breaking even, but the Herald hadn’t managed to win one round. Maybe if he’d spent more time looking at his cards instead of towards the horizon, he’d have managed to hold on to some of his coin. He’d been silent thus far, but Dorian could tell he was counting every second in his mind. He wondered how much longer the Herald could sit here.

The current round came to a conclusion. They each dropped their hands.

“Well, looks like I clean up again!” Varric chuckled, obviously pleased with himself. 

“Cheating your way to victory must be very fulfilling.” Dorian mocked. 

Bull murmured under his breath, taking a moment to glance up at the Herald, who’d been unable to keep himself from fidgeting. “What’s up, Boss?”

“Shouldn’t they have arrived by now?” The Herald asked, tentatively.

“Soon, I would imagine.” Dorian said halfheartedly, somewhat fatigued from trying to keep the Herald’s mind occupied, not that he’d been particularly successful in his attempts.

“You’ve been paying more attention to the bend in the road than you have to your cards. Not that I’m complaining; I’m more than happy to take your coin.” Varric smirked. 

Bull had been quiet. His face was stone, unreadable, especially so when Varric doled out new cards to the group. Dorian chalked it up to Ben-Hassrath training. Still, every once in a while, Dorian caught his solitary eye, glancing over towards the spot upon which the Herald’s attention had been fixed. 

Varric, who had been busy shuffling the deck of cards, abruptly stopped and put them down. “Listen,” he said, looking directly at the Herald, who turned to look at Varric, his séance broken for a moment. “You’re all worked up. You need to stop and breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

The Herald tried to heed Varric’s advice, but it didn’t seem that he could fill his lungs with air. He stared blankly at the ground in front of him. “What if this was a mistake? Everyone had qualms about this plan. If I fail, then this Elder One will rise up, our world will go to shit, and the blame will fall on my shoulders - and rightly so.” He absentmindedly plucked grass from the earth, letting the blades drift off on the light breeze. “Maybe I was too proud.”

“Listen, Boss.” The Bull leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs. “No one liked the plan, but we went along with it. Maybe it’s because you’ve got a Mark on your hand, maybe it’s because we believed in you, but none of that matters. What matters is we all want the same thing – we want to seal this Breach, and we’re all just as determined as you are to make sure that happens. We’re all here. We won’t stop fighting, even if this plan fails. We’ll find another way.”

“Doesn’t look like we’ll have to worry about that!” Dorian half-shouted, pointing towards the horizon, where Inquisition banners had begun to rise. The Herald shot to his feet, his body moving in graceful excitement a few steps closer to the incoming group. He waited eagerly to see what followed the first few soldiers. Sure enough, the horses came into view, with Cassandra and the rest of the Inner Circle riding towards the group.

Dorian walked up to the Herald’s side, and clapped his hand on the Herald’s shoulder. “Well, it seems as though your gamble paid off. I’m sure you are ecstatic.” The Herald turned his face to look at Dorian. His eyes were watering, in spite of the fact that his mouth was twisted into a smile.

“Thank you, Dorian.” He turned towards the mage. “None of this would have been possible without you. I… I…” He stuttered, “I can’t find the words.” A tear rolled down his cheek. He reached his arms out and wrapped them around Dorian’s shoulders. Normally, such a crass display of emotion would have elicited a violent physical reaction from Dorian, but Dorian thought it was best not to reject him in this moment.

_Surely, that’s what it is. Don’t want to hurt the poor Herald’s feelings. You’re not enjoying this at all._

Dorian’s arms found their way around the Herald, reaching up to his back, rubbing gently. The Herald’s head found its way in the side of Dorian’s neck, and the intimacy of the sensation lit Dorian aflame. He tried to push away all the feelings that bubbled beneath the surface of his mind, and he was largely successful but for one, simple sentiment that escaped his reach and floated to the top of his mind. 

_This feels right._

Bull and Varric had already started off towards the other members of the Inquisition. Bull turned his head, and nodded at Dorian, as if to let him know that he and the Herald should take their time.

Dorian was normally not much for comforting the despondent, but he found it somewhere within himself to soothe the Herald. “There, there. Pull yourself together.” Dorian whispered lightly. “Can’t have you greeting the troops like this.” 

The Herald managed a laugh, and pulled himself away. Dorian had become accustomed to the feeling of resentment that accompanied the moment when they broke contact. The Herald sniffed lightly and rubbed his face quickly. 

“I will repay you.” He said, his voice finding its strength. “You’ve done so much for the Inquisition, for me.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something. Just ask Andraste. You are her Herald, after all.”

“Would it be considered repayment if I would enjoy it just as much as you?” The Herald asked, his eyes glinting, gazing far away, a smile teasing the corners of his lips upward. He looked over to Dorian, and before Dorian could respond with his own innuendo, the Herald spoke. “And you don’t need to call me ‘Herald.’”

 _One could never accuse this man of being unsurprising._ “So then, what should I call you?”

“Trevelyan was popular in the Circle.”

“Relying on your family name? I’m quite familiar with the technique.”

The Herald – Trevelyan – laughed. “They did bother giving me a first name. I never much cared for it, but maybe it’ll sound more pleasing coming from your lips.” 

“And that name would be?”

“Gabriel.”

“Gabriel it is then. Just not in front of the Seeker – I’m sure she’d have me beheaded for heresy.”

“She’d have to behead herself, then, so as to not appear a hypocrite.” The earlier tears had been replaced by the ringing laughter of the Herald – Trevelyan – _Gabriel_ – that Dorian enjoyed the most.

“Well, the troops have arrived. Shall we greet them?”

“I suppose.” Trevelyan started walking towards the Inquisition’s troops, turning his head around to urge Dorian to follow. Dorian quickly caught up to his side. “You know,” Trevelyan said, as they strode briskly through the grass, “I was right.” 

“About time magic? Don’t let that victory go to your head.” 

“That’s not what I was talking about. That was pure luck. And your skill.”

“I’m glad you recognize my immense contribution. Then what, pray tell, were you speaking of?”

“My name,” the Herald said, turning his head towards Dorian, smiling. “It does sound better coming out of your mouth.”

Dorian’s chest tightened. _Are you… are you giddy?!_ Dorian rolled his eyes at himself. _You have known the Herald – Trevelyan – GABRIEL – for less than a month. You’ve enjoyed the playful banter and the flirtation. You’ve traveled through time together. You’ve been less than a foot away from his genitals._ What was he even hoping for? A quick fuck? A short fling? A romance for the ages with the closest thing to a blessed scion of the Maker’s light that Thedas had seen since the time of Andraste?

_Pull yourself together, and respond._

“Plenty of people have used the word ‘better’ in reference to my mouth.”

The Herald laughed. “Really? I’m surprised you’d admit to anyone saying anything other than, ‘best.’”

Kaffas! 

“Herald!” Cassandra called out over the short distance that separated her from the two of them. _Wonderful. Thank you, Lady Seeker, for allowing Trevelyan to get the last word. Again._

“Cassandra! I trust all is well?”

“Yes, Herald. It is imperative that we do not tarry long – we must make haste to Therinfal. I trust your mission in Redcliffe was a success?”

Gabriel looked at Dorian and laughed. “It went well enough, I suppose. I believe we are securing the allegiance of the mages as we speak. I can fill you and the rest of the Inner Circle in on the specifics later this evening.” 

Bull and Varric had already taken their mounts. Two agents walked over towards the Herald and Dorian with horses. Dorian recognized them – the agents that had been with them last night, after Redcliffe. 

“Thank you. See you again in a few hours.” Trevelyan joked. He looked to Dorian, who laughed at the absurdity of the entire situation. 

They mounted their steeds and were off, speeding towards Therinfal. Dorian wondered what horrors awaited them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't how it was supposed to go, and then I got carried away.
> 
> Finals are starting soon, so things might slow down, or speed up depending on how much I need to distract myself at any given moment.
> 
> The Kudos and Comments are much appreciated!


	6. The Templars at Therinfal

Dorian was sick to his stomach; the kind of bilious aching that portends a violent upheaval of its contents. He wasn’t sure whether or not it was the Templars, seemingly being devoured from the inside out by Red Lyrium, and the way they seemed to pull the Fade just out of his reach, or the fact that Trevelyan had been right again – things were just as bad at Therinfal as they had been at Redcliffe, if not worse. 

He exhaled against the sensation in his stomach, praying to the Maker that his breath would be the only thing emerging from his mouth.

He yanked the Fade, a strenuous ordeal with the Red Templars so close, and cast a barrier around Blackwall, who was pounding away at them with his axe, allowing Dorian and Gabriel to stand back and utilize as much magic as they could.

Out of the corner of his eye Dorian saw the Templar Archer, eyes glinting vermillion, lining up his shot. _Right through my eye, I should think._ Dorian pulled at the Fade as quickly as he could, but the magic just wouldn’t come.

Dorian’s thoughts flashed to his Father of all people in this, his final moment. He remembered the letters that would arrive, wherever Dorian had managed to find himself, begging and pleading with him to return home and stop tarnishing the family name any further than he already had. Dorian would immediately incinerate them. _Over my dead body._

It had to happen sooner or later, he supposed.

___

The camp was relatively quiet. Dorian sniffed at the cool night air, craning his neck towards the tents of the nobility that Josephine had assembled to accompany them on their mission to recruit the Templars. He could practically smell the opulence from here, the fine wines and delicacies that the servants carried hurriedly from tent to tent. Maybe they wouldn’t notice one more guest. If he slipped in quietly and drew no attention to himself, he might be able to get his hands on a little something, a glass of a fine Orlesian red, and a nibble of some meat or fish that hadn’t been burned over a campfire?

_Oh, who are you kidding? You can’t help but draw attention to yourself._

Dorian chalked it up to his impossibly good looks, and was about to turn around to leave when he noticed the flap of one of the tents move slightly, and then open up. He heard the peals of laughter and the fond goodbyes coming from inside the tent, and the figure of a woman emerging. She ducked to leave the tent, at which point Dorian noticed the pseudo-horns on her head, and one of those ludicrous Orlesian masks on her face. Vivienne.

She waved her final goodbyes to whichever noble family had been so kind as to invite her to join them, and turned to walk back to her own tent.

Dorian just happened to be in her way. 

“Vivienne,” Dorian politely nodded his head as she neared him.

“My dear, whatever are you doing here? Lurking in the shadows, praying that some unsuspecting nobles will be so kind as to invite you to join them?”

“I’m sure any noble that appreciates your company wouldn’t have the requisite level of taste to appreciate mine.”

“Oh, darling, whatever level is that? The level of the dirt beneath my heel?”

He laughed. “That’s practically a compliment, coming from an Orlesian.”

Her gaze upon him remained cool. “Almost, but not quite. The Herald, however, seems very taken with you.”

Dorian froze up. _All business, this one._ “How do you mean?”

“When he was recounting the tale of what happened in Redcliffe, he made it abundantly clear that without your aid, he may very well have never even existed. He sang your praises, but I couldn’t help but notice the crinkles in the corners of his eyes,” she said. “I wonder,” the noble lilt in her voice vanishing, as a chilly undertone crept in, “just how taken is he?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about, and I don’t appreciate the insinuation. I can assure you there is nothing untoward going on between the Herald and I.”

“What insinuation, darling? I thought the question was rather direct.” _Maybe for an Orlesian._ “Regardless, if you think I haven’t noticed the both of you sneaking glances at each other every time you are together, then you are mistaken. And if I’ve noticed, well, I can guarantee that others have as well, and it won’t be long before word spreads that the Herald of Andraste is being seduced by a Tevinter.”

Dorian fumed on the inside. _I have hardly even touched the man!_ Was the south so simple as to believe a few stolen looks were the sign of a budding love affair? If that were the case, then he was certain the nobility would be whispering behind their fans about his trysts with half of Inquisition.

He wasn’t quite sure how to respond. He could continue to deny the accusations outright, but that would be worthless; Vivienne didn’t believe him as it was. He could tell her the truth – _Ha!_ He laughed the thought away quickly. Or – and he liked this idea most, the more it snowballed in his mind – he could try and get under her skin.

He took a step forward, standing proud. Vivienne’s posture was impeccable, but he still stood taller than her, even with her atrocious headpiece. He bowed his head to meet her eyes with his own. 

His voice was but a breathy whisper. “Now, Madame de Fer, whatever _may_ or may not be between the Herald and I is exactly that – between the Herald and I. If you think that you are capable of intimidating me into satisfying your prurient interest by spilling all my secrets, then you are sorely mistaken, my dear.”

She looked at him, her countenance as icy as ever. He wondered if she’d magicked her face with a freezing spell. “Dorian, my concern does not lie with the Herald’s affairs, only with his image, and how that reflects on all the Inquisition. Surely, even you are aware of how such a dalliance would appear to those who might support the Inquisition?” Dorian fought to keep his face from intimating even the slightest hint of emotion. “The Herald, taking a Tevinter paramour? It would give pause to those who would readily support the Inquisition otherwise. The Inquisition grows in power – are you so blinded by lust that you would allow it to be hobbled?”

_Kaffas._ Again, he was forced to admit that she was right. The Herald’s couldn’t afford to pay that price, to cripple the Inquisition before it even got its legs. Maybe that’s why nothing had gone past flirting. _Or maybe it’s because you’ve been a little preoccupied to get to the juicier bits._ Dorian stamped the second thought out of his mind. _Hoping against hope, are you now, Pavus? Thought you’d tempered yourself against that sentiment years ago?_

Dorian rolled his eyes to a close and exhaled. Before he had a chance to defend himself, Vivienne started in. “Up until this point, I’ve had my doubts about you, but it seems that you’ve been honest about your intentions in aiding the Herald and stopping your fool countrymen. I would hate to see you squander the goodwill you’ve managed to cultivate by doing something so foolish, my dear. If you truly wish to support the Inquisition, you ought to neglect your more… _base_ desires.”

Dorian hated giving someone the sublime satisfaction that accompanies having the last word, but he could think of nothing to say. The intent behind her words, at least her more recent ones, wasn’t to hurt him. In fact, Dorian thought it was the closest thing to mercy she could have displayed, dashing his hopes before they grew like weeds. 

“Goodnight, Vivienne.” He turned and walked back in the direction of his tent. 

“Goodnight, dear.” She called after him. Her tone was tinged with just the lightest note of pity, and it made Dorian seethe. Had Dorian been but a few years younger, he would have turned around and put her in her place. _I am not one to be pitied, I, an Altus from the Tevinter Imperium, without which you’d be nothing more than a haggard beast, tucked away in a dingy hut, unable to do much more with your magic than light a bloody candle._ The lesser part of his mind relished the thought of crushing her in a duel, with magic that a base creature such as herself, a southern mage bound to her beloved Circle, couldn’t even begin to imagine. 

But he’d grown since those days. Leaving her broken and battered would completely destroy whatever good opinion he had generated, and certainly would lead to his outright dismissal from the Inquisition. Besides, pity was certainly a step above hatred, or mistrust, or suspicion – feelings he was sure that other members of the Inquisition weren’t quite ready to put to rest. 

He opened the flap of his tent and ducked in quickly, closing it behind him. He flopped on his bedroll, anger rising up within him. _Great, Pavus. You leave the Imperium, only to come down here and find yourself entangled in the same political maneuvering and power grabs._

He thought back to what Vivienne said, about supporting the Inquisition, and knew that while her advice was sound, it stemmed from her own desires to bolster her own influence, both within the Inquisition and outside of its ranks. Her perceived role in the Inquisition would only be beneficial if the Inquisition transformed itself from a band of rogues and heretics, into a power that garnered both popular and noble support, and Vivienne was certainly not one to stand idly by and allow an opportunity to extend her reach evade her. Her conversation with Dorian was simply another maneuver in her long-running game – become a promising ally, one with influence and connections, nurture the fledgling Inquisition into full blossom, and reap the rewards when the nobility all come to gawk at the movement she helped to cultivate. 

His mind turned towards Trevelyan. Nothing of note had transpired between the pair. Were the nobility so desperate for idle gossip, that they were willing to transform a few stolen looks and idle conversations into a scandalous love affair that called into question the soundness of the Inquisition’s judgment? Dorian wondered if she’d spoken with Trevelyan as well, or if she’d thought better of saying something to him out of fear of alienating him. Dorian guessed at the latter. 

Dorian wondered what Trevelyan would think of all of this. Was he as concerned as Vivienne was about how the Inquisition appeared to those whose favor would make or break the movement? Would the inevitability of gossip spreading from the camps of Haven through Orlais convince him to cease his flirtations? Would he be so easily swayed by the fear that even the mere suggestion of romantic involvement with a Tevinter could stunt the growth of the Inquisition?

Dorian sighed into his bedroll. _You are putting too much thought into this, all things considered._ He curled up under the thin sheets, and huffed in finality: 

“Nothing will happen between you and Trevelyan.”

Dorian let that thought permeate his mind as he drifted off to sleep. When weeds, like hope, begin to grow, you must dig them out at the root, he reasoned. There is nothing, and there will be nothing. 

It didn’t stop Dorian from wondering how Gabriel’s lips would taste. 

Hope was a particularly difficult weed to uproot. 

___

Dorian could find nothing at all to like about Therinfal Redoubt. The air was clammy and cold, and a fog hung over the place, seemingly determined to devour the old fortress and everything surrounding it in its sickly gray mists. Nothing at all felt quite right, but he ignored the pit in his stomach; there was nothing he’d be able to do about it, anyway.

The Inquisition made its way through the gates, with Dorian keeping to the edges, for fear of having to strike up a conversation with a member of the Orlesian nobility. Their frippery and self-importance almost made him miss the magisters of his homeland, whose excessive displays of power and wealth were at least undercut by a ruthless pragmatism that drove them to deal with their rivals in the simplest means – usually, with a knife to the gut or a carefully concocted poison. Sure, the Orlesians were ruthless – case in point, Madame de Fer – but their affected speech and gestures, their ostentatious fashions and those _bloody ridiculous masks_ transformed them from fearsome to comical.

They were greeted by a Templar at the gate, Ser Barris, a man with cheekbones at high and steep as the side of a cliff, who seemed to have as little patience for the nobility as they seemed to have for him. He marched passed one of the Orlesian lords – Abernache, Dorian recalled the name - making a beeline for the Herald, discussing the current situation. The Lord Seeker had, in fact, been acting erratically, and Barris was obviously concerned, not only with the fate of the Order, but how clearly at odds that fate seemed with his own personal perceptions of duty.

_So they aren’t all power mad, mindless mage slayers?_ Dorian marveled internally at how many twists they were witnessing. When the Herald refused to participate in the ridiculous “rites,” the intrigue developed even further – apparently the Lord Seeker was fixated not on the Inquisition as a whole, but solely on Trevelyan. Dorian’s curiosity did little to temper the overall feeling of dread he was experiencing – nothing here was at all as they’d suspected it would be, just as it had been in Redcliffe, and Dorian was savvy enough to know none of these circumstances bade well for anyone in the Inquisition, least of all, Gabriel.

His suspicions were confirmed shortly thereafter, when Knight-Captain Denam and his cronies entered the scene – informing the group that the Herald’s arrival had interrupted whatever plan the Lord Seeker had concocted, sowing dissent among the Templar ranks. Abernache may have been a bumbling, condescending fool, but he was smart enough to know when to beat a hasty retreat. It wasn’t until the Templars that accompanied Denam moved into the light that they realized something was seriously amiss – their faces were disfigured, veins raging against the surface of their skin, their eyes burning scarlet. 

He was right, Dorian thought for a moment. _Whatever it is that happened here, under the Lord Seeker – it’s just as bad as Redcliffe._

And then Denam said something that sent a shockwave through Dorian’s chest.

“The Elder One is coming.”

_What?!_ Dorian thought, as the Templars advanced on them. He unleashed a torrent of lightning at them, hoping to paralyze them for long enough to allow their front line warriors to cut them down, but the Templars rejected his spell, practically reducing it to a shock.

_Don’t be a fool, Dorian._

He’d had some encounters with Templars, mostly the ones in Haven, so he wasn’t completely unaware of the sensation that accompanied their abilities, but when they were actively turned against you, it was a much different tale. He thought of all the great academics who tried to describe the way that it felt to have the fade ripped away from you – of course, they waxed poetic in flowery language, attempting to outdo each other’s hyperbole. For all the metaphors they employed, none of them got the sensation quite right: Dorian felt an overwhelming wave of nausea hit him, almost like seasickness. He’d have more time to ponder it later, when he wasn’t about to die. 

He fell back quickly, keeping his eyes on the Templars in the room around them. If he could catch one of them with a spell while they were preoccupied, he might be able to provide some assistance, even as the Fade grew quiet around him.

The Herald had Fade Stepped through the crowd, slowed by the way that the Templars twisted the Fade around them. He managed to get off a Winter’s Grasp that froze one of the archers solid, allowing Varric’s arrow to sail cleanly through the ice and into the Templar’s skull.

Bull and Cassandra threw themselves instantly into the fray, unfazed by the abilities of the Templar warriors. Blackwall hung back, guarding Sera and Solas from arrows, giving them enough cover to allow them to quickly launch an attack or two at their foes before tucking back behind him.

Vivienne, for all of her poise and posture, was a formidable opponent on the battlefield, drawing an elegant blade of shimmering golden light out of thin air, piercing it through the helm of a Templar. Determined to stand at the fore while the Inquisition helps to shape the world – even on the battlefield. _If anything, the woman was consistent._

Dorian threw a barrier up around Bull, hoping that a Templar wouldn’t immediately dispel it, but it was almost unnecessary, as he slammed his oversized axe into the leg of a Templar, bringing him crashing to the ground, and summarily burying its edge into the Templar’s face.

The Herald screamed. Dorian spun around to find the source of the noise. Trevelyan was holding off a Templar, swatting his sword away with his staff, but it was clear that he hadn’t been trained in close-quarters fighting, and was just barely keeping his foe from stabbing him in the gut. Dorian reacted, slamming his staff into the ground, a Horror spell, hoping that the spirits he summoned would at the very least distract the Templar long enough for the Herald to get out of the range of his blade. His plan worked, at least when it came to the Templar, who was too occupied with trying to dispel the spirits to notice the Herald’s glowing green hand flying through the air towards his chest. The Herald’s hand made contact with the Templar’s armor and glowed violently, the emerald light illuminating the room. Dorian stared on, dumbstruck, wondering what would happen.

The flames burst forth from the Herald’s marked hand, and the intensity of the spell blew the Templar across the room with the force of Qunari Blackpowder, knocking the Templar into a wall that was visibly damaged by the weight of the armored body smashing into it. Trevelyan’s arm recoiled from the force, and he slid back on his feet before catching himself. Dorian was in awe – the magnitude of the spell was incredible, and the fact that he could muster such power around a Templar was a jaw-dropping feat. Dorian forgot for a moment where he was, his mind racing with the possibilities, trying to figure out an explanation for the unbelievable display of might he had just witnessed. 

The sound of Cassandra’s blade punching through the final Templar’s armor brought Dorian back to reality. 

“Is everyone alright?” Blackwall asked. They all looked around at each other, and then quickly back to the Herald, who stood, hand outstretched, eyes wide and fixated on the Mark.

“Hey Boss, you okay? I could feel the heat from that spell all the way over here.”

“That spell was… well it was something. I’ve never seen anything like that. Did the Mark have something to do with it?” Varric wondered aloud.

“I doubt it is that simple,” Solas answered. “Herald, were you even aware of what it was that you were doing?”

Trevelyan stood, frozen in the same position for a moment, before realizing that someone was speaking to him. He tore his head away from his hand and opened his mouth. “No.” _An encouraging start._ “I mean, in a way. I was trying to use a fire spell, but the rest? I’m not quite sure where that came from.”

The tension in the room was palpable – Dorian assumed they were all internally debating the Mark, and whether or not this new trick was something good, or something bad. _Since those categories have always been so clearly defined._

“Let’s not lose sight of our mission – we have to find the Lord Seeker.” Cassandra interrupted, re-focusing the group. The Herald nodded at her, and the group began to move. 

_Sure, ignore the surge of power from a Mark that none of us seem to understand. That won’t come to bite us in the ass later, I’m sure of it!_

Dorian chased after the rest of the group, trying his best to get to Trevelyan. Denam mentioned the Elder One – _none of this is a coincidence._ But if this Elder One was pulling the strings, Dorian wondered, how and where did all those strings connect?

“Gabriel!” He shouted over the crowd. He turned his head over his should to catch Dorian’s gaze. “You heard Denam, did you not? This Elder One – he’s responsible for whatever happened here, as well. The same person behind the explosion at the Conclave, the Venatori in Redcliffe, and whatever is… _infecting_ the Templars.”

Trevelyan nodded. “I know, Dorian. Let’s find the Lord Seeker. He knows something about all of this. Hopefully we can start piecing together this puzzle.” Dorian nodded, dutifully. They kept moving onward. Dorian pondered everything silently. 

They cut their way through Therinfal, the Red Templars emerging in the Courtyard to try and halt the Inquisition’s advance. 

“They are all monsters!” The Lady Seeker screamed, as she cut another one down. Genuine horror tinged her voice, and Dorian was sure that had everything to do with the possibility that the Lord Seeker was behind theses horrors.

“They are stronger than regular Templars. What could be enhancing their abilities like this?” Solas wondered, as Dorian trapped two archers in a Static Cage, and Solas dutifully knocked them back into its walls with a Stonefist. The mages’ strongest spells did pitifully little damage to the Templars, so they had resigned themselves to providing support to the front line warriors – controlling the battlefield as best they could, instead of focusing their magic on direct attacks. Walls of Ice and Fire to keep the Templars at bay, Lightning Bolts to paralyze, anything to give Blackwall, Bull, Cassandra, and Barris an opening to down the monsters as quickly as possible. They would clearly need to develop another strategy for dealing with these Templars at a later date – this makeshift approach was only so effective, and they rarely traveled in this large a group. 

They continued to run up the ramparts of the fortress, towards the Main Hall, at the behest of Barris. They cut down more Templars, the red seemingly seeping out of their pores. Dorian thought back to the dark future they had only narrowly avoided. He recalled all the red lyrium growing throughout Redcliffe Castle, how it seemed to sing that primal, nightmarish song. His mind began to piece things together – Templars, regular Templars, gained access to their abilities from ingesting lyrium. Could these Templars, red and swollen, looking increasingly inhuman – could they have gained their powers from red lyrium?

At the top of the stairs, standing before the door to the Main Hall, was the Lord Seeker, his back to the group, who slowly climbed their way up the steps, afraid of whatever surprise might take them next. Dorian scanned the group, and caught Sera and Bull looking up to the ramparts above the door to check for enemy archers. Cassandra strode next to the Herald, eager to confront the Lord Seeker. Vivienne and Solas stood towards the center, staves in hand; ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Blackwall and Varric took up the rear, keeping their eyes peeled for a possible sneak attack.

They made it to the top of the stairs. Their eyes had all turned to the Lord Seeker, whom the Herald approached cautiously. Trevelyan had nearly reached him when the Lord Seeker spun about suddenly, grabbed Trevelyan’s collar, and dragged him to the door.

“At last!” He hissed. A green glow surrounded the pair.

In what seemed like an instant, the Herald’s arms lashed out. He spun the pair around and smashed his head against the Lord Seeker, who flew back with enough force to break the door to the Hall. The Herald raised his hand and launched a fireball at the Lord Seeker. Cassandra gasped. Barras shouted. 

The Lord Seeker’s body contorted violently on the ground, changing, transforming. _Has he been infected, too?_ Whatever it was, it stood up, twisted, monstrous – a demon – before screeching at their group, dissipating into a cloud of black smoke and flying away past what appeared to be a magical barrier. 

“The Lord Seeker!” Barris shouted.

“No. An Imposter.” Trevelyan, gathering himself, uttered. 

The revelation that a demon had been impersonating the Lord Seeker began to dawn over the members of the Inquisition. It clearly hit Cassandra hard; she stood, fists clenched, mouth agape, her eyes narrowed in a cool rage. None of the other members of the Inquisition seemed too pleased about this new fact, either. Sera’s eyes darted around, on the lookout for more demons, Dorian assumed. Blackwall and Bull had drawn their weapons, and held them at the ready, in case any other nightmares decided to show up. Even Vivienne’s icy countenance had melted down to a mere frosty as she looked into the Hall. 

“Did anyone else see a young man appear beside me?” Trevelyan asked, puzzled.

“What young man?” Ser Barris asked.

“Pale. Strangely dressed. He was with me?”

_What was the Herald on about?_

“I saw no one. The Lord Seeker was alone when you revealed his true nature.”

_Wonderful. More demons? This is turning into a real party._

Barris and the Herald continue to talk, but Dorian’s head was spinning. A demon – “Envy,” Trevelyan called it – posing as the Lord Seeker. He heard Barris confirm his earlier suspicions – the higher-ranking commanders in the Order had indeed been ingesting red lyrium, spurred on by Envy posing as the Lord Seeker. 

_Does everyone in the south just blindly follow the leader?_ Dorian scoffed. _They’d never last a minute in Tevinter._ He thought back to his time in Minrathous, where he’d attended all the right parties and met all the right people, and managed to avoid being shanked or poisoned by his more cunning countrymen. _That requires a questioning, critical mind, something everyone south of Nevarra seems to be utterly lacking._

The Herald and Barris had come up with some sort of plan – the Templars in the hall, the ones who managed to avoid the unlucky fate of becoming corrupted, needed lyrium to break through the demon’s barrier. They would hold the hall while the Inquisition forces moved to find the lyrium stores. 

The Herald moved towards their group. “Alright, we need to split up – see what we can find. Our primary objective is to find the uncorrupted lyrium. Barris says there are Templar lieutenants out there as well – help them as best you can. Any information you can find about Envy or his plans may also be invaluable.” He bit down on his lower lip, thinking quickly. “Cassandra, Solas, Sera, and Bull – head to the Officer’s Quarters. Dorian, Blackwall, and I will head to the Upper Barracks. Vivienne and Varric – you stay here, and assist the Templars.” They all nodded their silent assent to the plan. “Make sure you heal up before you head out there. There’s no telling what we might find.”

As their small group moved to the left of the hall, Dorian couldn’t help but ask, “Gabriel –“ The Herald turned, “- what exactly happened? With the Envy demon, I mean. It all happened so quickly.” 

“Envy reached into my mind. He wanted to become me – to learn about me and take my shape, use the Inquisition to help the Elder One conquer Thedas. The Elder One wants me dead. He talked about the army of demons, marching across Orlais. How this all ties back to Redcliffe and the Conclave, I’m not quite certain, but I know for sure that it’s all connected.”

Dorian nodded. “Shall we, then?” 

“Keep your eye out for a boy with a large hat. He was inside my mind, with Envy. I’m not sure who – or what – he is exactly, but I think he wants to help.”

_How enthralling. The ranks of the Inquisition were already odd enough – what harm could one imaginary boy do?_

___

 

If the Templars they’d come across before were horrifying, stained red by the taint of red lyrium, then these beasts must have been steeped in it for far longer – any semblance of humanity long vanished from their twisted visages, their hideously malformed bodies hunched over from the weight of the spikes of red lyrium that pierced through the skin of their backs. 

Any curiosity on the subject of red lyrium that may have lingered in Dorian’s mind was almost instantly quelled at the sight of these creatures. Regardless of the probative value of studying the stuff, Dorian recoiled at the thought of what it could do to his own face, and that was not a risk worth taking. 

The Lieutenant was fighting admirably, but would have been quickly crushed had their group not made it in time. The beasts were powerful, able to launch shards of the stuff from their bodies. Dorian wasted most of his magic maintaining Barriers on Blackwall and the Lieutenant, fighting against the Templars’ innate magical dampening powers. Luckily, these creatures didn’t seem to be able to control that gift with much accuracy, given what Dorian assumed to be an inclination towards more primal urges, lashing out against what it perceived to be an enemy. Still, it was a strain on his abilities, and he was pulling all the magic he could to help Blackwall and Trevelyan take the beasts down. 

And that’s when he noticed the Archer, out of the corner of his eye. 

___

 

The Templar Archer’s eyes narrowed on his mark. Dorian was out of options. 

He watched as, suddenly, the archer slumped forward, the arrow launching harmlessly into the ground. A pale boy, wearing a hat with an overlarge brim, had appeared from nowhere, sinking his daggers into the neck of the archer. His head moved in Dorian’s direction, before vanishing in a cloud of smoke that dissipated too quickly to be natural.

_That was certainly not a human._ Dorian thought to himself.

The final horror went down with a bellow, its voice mangled and horrific, sounding more animal than man, echoing off the red lyrium that had likely encased its throat. Dorian’s skin crawled at the sound. 

The Herald turned towards the Lieutenant. “Head back to the Main Hall. The Templars there could use your assistance.”

“Thank you, sir.” The Lieutenant turned and left in the direction they had come.

Blackwall was bloodied, beaten. Dorian wasn’t sure, but it looked as though his nose was leaking blood down to his mustache. The Herald’s armor was banged up, flecks of red lyrium embedded where the monster had shot at him. Dorian rushed over to Blackwall. 

“Stop for a moment, you hairy lummox, and let me patch you up.” Dorian pulled at the Fade, which had reemerged after the Red Templars had gone down, and he greedily dipped into the renewed mana to ensure that Blackwall’s wounds were sufficiently healed. As his hands worked, he turned his head to the Herald, who was furiously trying to pick out the bits of lyrium from his chest plate. “I saw him – that boy you mentioned. He took out one of their archers – luckily, right before it was about to kill me.”

“Oh?” The Herald looked up, distracted from his task, eyes wide. “Where did he go?”

“Vanished.” Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Whatever he is – and I use the term ‘he’ very lightly – he’s obviously not human.”

“That’s readily apparent.” The Herald’s tone dropped to a deadpan. “But he seems to want to help, and we’re not really in a position to deny the assistance, are we?”

“Quite right. Take it where you can get it. Always been my life’s motto.” Blackwall snorted at Dorian’s crass remark, and the Herald laughed lightly, before turning his head to the courtyard. 

“We need to find the lyrium, and the other Lieutenants – I’m healed up enough,” Blackwall said, swatting Dorian away. “Let’s go.”

____

They had made it back in time, to a perfect vantage point on the upper level of the Main Hall, to watch Vivienne gloriously disembowel one of the Horrors with a twist of her Spirit Blade. Its insides glowed fiery red as they splattered on the floor. The Herald kicked down a ladder. “Is everyone alright?” He called.

“Good enough.” Varric shouted as the Herald slid down the ladder. 

“Have the others returned yet?”

“No, darling. I can’t imagine what’s keeping them. They did send the third Lieutenant back, thankfully, but it has been some time since she arrived to assist us here.” Vivienne added helpfully, glancing down at her robes, which were practically dripping with blood. “So much for these.” Dorian heard her mutter.

The upper door to the Officer’s Quarters burst open, as if on cue, with Bull leading the way, his arms holding a glowing blue chest – Dorian recognized the comforting shine of lyrium – _pure lyrium_ – uncorrupted by whatever tainted the red stuff. 

He hauled it under one arm as he made his way down the ladder. Sera followed quickly thereafter. 

“Bull, thank the Maker.” The Herald ran to his side, putting his hand to the gash in Bull’s shoulder where he’d been slashed by a blade. It began to seal close under the warm glow of Trevelyan’s magic. _He’s certainly a strong healer_ , Dorian thought to himself. Maybe the Circles focused more on practical magic – topics like healing and alchemy. Nothing like his studies, which drifted quickly from the basics into more exotic topics – necromancy being his personal area of expertise, not to mention all the time he spent researching time magic. Dorian wondered if delving into such topics was even a possibility in the southern Circles. 

Solas emerged at the top of the balcony, breathing heavily. 

“Herald, the Lady Seeker –“ He was cut off by the screams of a Templar Archer, flying over the railing and landing with a sickening crack on his back, inches from Vivienne, who deftly ended whatever suffering he had left with a swift jab from her staff blade. The wound gushed more blood onto Vivienne’s soiled robes.

“Lovely,” she purred, with an expression that intimated only the slightest irritation.

Cassandra made her way down the ladder, shifting her weight onto one leg, the other apparently injured in the fracas. Varric brought a healing potion to her, which she swallowed in polite sips in between her ragged breaths. “Herald,” she started, “We found information in one of the rooms – a plot to kill Empress Celene. Just as you said had happened in the dark future at Redcliffe.” 

“We’ll have Leliana’s people scour the room for anything of note after this is all finished.” The Herald said. “We have to get to the bottom of this.” They turned their attention to Barris and the Templars who stood in the hall. “What now?”

___

The Envy demon was a tricky beast, but ultimately was outmatched by their team, who took it apart piece by piece. Dorian was proud of the synergy that they’d developed, watching Vivienne rush in with her Spirit Blade and phasing into a Fade Cloak just in time for Bull’s weapon to come smashing down on one of its limbs. Cassandra stood back providing a supporting role to Varric and Sera, blocking incoming attacks and bolstering them with her demon-fighting abilities, making their arrows sink into the demon’s flesh with that much more force. 

He took the Herald’s form, or more precisely, a shadow of the Herald, and the Herald stepped forward. “Let me handle this.” Dorian assumed that this mirrored duel was the Herald’s way of repaying the Envy demon for the indignities he had suffered. They matched each other blow for blow, flying at each other in a Fade Step, arcing towards each other, slamming the grips of their staves against one another, each trying to gain an edge. 

“You cannot defeat me! I know your every move!” The demon squealed in delight.

“That may be true,” The Herald uttered, straining to match the force the demon was exerting with his staff, “but you don’t have this!” He opened his left hand, flat against his staff, and his Mark glowed blindingly, blasting the demon back, electrified by the force of the Chain Lightning that the Herald had unleashed. The shadowy form he had taken faded away, revealing the monster once more, desperate and scrambling to make a dent. He vanished into a portal in the group, spinning up under the feet of Sera, who screamed violently as Envy made to claw through her stomach. His claws reached high into the air to gain leverage, but as they came down, he was stopped by the boy from earlier, in his overlarge hat, who dug a dagger into each of the offending arms, and watched as the demon reeled long enough to be brought down by a Shield Bash from Blackwall. 

Sera had gotten up and began to fumble around in her pockets – he heard her screaming “Shite!” in frustration at her clumsy hands – until she found a vial that glowed a sickly yellow, which she promptly smashed on her chest. _An alchemical mixture? Surprising, considering her regressive attitude towards magic_. She disappeared into a rush of golden light, as her figured circled the demon in an impossible frenzy, launching a volley of arrows into its skull, until all you could hear was the sound of the metal arrowheads scratching against each other.

She whirred back to normal, breathing heavily, cursing under her breath, still firing into the monster, whose head now resembled a melon that had been dropped from several stories above. 

“Sera? Sera!” Bull shouted. “I think you got him.”

She looked up, enraged. She growled at Bull, walked over to the demon’s side, stomped her foot clean through its chest, and strode past the rest of the group, cursing violently the entire time. Dorian couldn’t deny that, while he found Sera both immature and quite possibly insane, she had a certain charm. 

The Herald and the rest of the group returned to the Templars, and Ser Barris stepped forward to take accountability for the actions of the Templars. _The final twist of Therinfal - I am sympathizing with the lyrium-addled southern Templars! Maybe you ought to go sacrifice an unwilling participant in a blood magic ritual to get your sense back in proper working order, Pavus._

The Herald was kind and forgiving. _Too forgiving_ , Dorian thought. His voice rang out, over the crowd. _Your Order is a symbol that holds the people’s respect. That cannot die today. We offer you an alliance! Supplies, weapons, grounds to shelter you. All we ask is you help us close the Breach._

The same offer he made the mages in Redcliffe. Whereas Fiona needed a moment to ponder, unilaterally, the fate of her people, Barris turned to the Templars and sought their approval, and it resounded through the courtyard without a moment of doubt. _Well, Trevelyan certainly has the patience of a Holy Figure down pat_ , Dorian thought. If it were up to him, Dorian would have brought them all back in chains, forced them to pledge allegiance to the Inquisition, found the prettiest one among them, and made him polish his boots and peel his grapes. 

His sympathy was short lived. _Idiots, the lot of them. I can hardly wait to see what assistance the mages and Templars provide in closing the Breach. Might as well write my father off one last time before these bumbling fools kill us all._

The Herald turned back to the members of the Inquisition, looking over the faces of each and every member. They all looked… pleased? Not happy, certainly, but there was a quiet respect for the Herald. They were _impressed._ The Herald’s gambit had succeeded. The mages and the Templars had come under the Inquisition’s banner. They hadn’t broken the world with time magic. And they’d learned more about the forces responsible for the chaos that had broken out in southern Thedas.

_A handy little victory_ , Dorian thought, as he turned his head back towards the Herald, who eyes were gazing right at him.

Trevelyan broke out into a broad grin, showing as many teeth as possible. Dorian could almost feel Vivienne’s icy glare crushing down upon him, and he couldn’t help but slightly relish in her frustration.

_Let the tongues wag. Even if I won’t have the chance to do any wagging of my own, at least I can enjoy the gossip._

Trevelyan moved towards the group. They convened in a loose circle, standing together. Dorian noticed the pale boy, lurking beyond the Templars, vanishing into the shadows of the fortress. 

“Are we ready to head back to Haven?” Trevelyan asked, riding his victory with cheer in his voice.

“Yes, Herald. The mages should have already arrived, and we will bring the Templars riding in behind us.” Cassandra said.

“I wonder what we’ll do once they both get there. We have to keep them apart, obviously, to prevent them from slaughtering each other outright. At least, for long enough to seal the Breach.” The Herald said, the cheer dissipating from his voice when faced with the painful reality of the circumstances.

“Wait a minute – neither side knows that you were helping out the other, do they?” Varric asked incredulously. Trevelyan’s eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. “Well, shit.”

“You didn’t tell the mages you would be enlisting the aid of the Templars?” Cassandra was doing everything in her power to keep her voice below a roar.

“I didn’t want to give them an opportunity to turn down our offer!” The Herald said, like a child who’d been caught by a parent. Cassandra glowered at him, the lines of her face sharp and severe. 

“Oh boy.” Blackwall said, shaking his head.

“Bloody brilliant.” Sera added, her voice laced with sarcasm.

“We’ll figure it out once we return. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?” Trevelyan said, smiling as much as he could muster. Cassandra tossed her head to one side and made a noise of sheer disgust. Dorian rolled his eyes at the latest development. _Wonderful._ The Herald’s gambles rested on other gambles. No point in bothering to go back in time to secure both groups if they both manage to kill each other before the Breach was sealed. 

Dorian wondered to himself how the Herald planned on quelling the war that raged between the Mages and the Templars, or if he even had a plan at all.

_He’s pulled a miracle or twenty out of his ass before._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less snark this time around. 
> 
> I know there wasn't a lot of variation here from the in-game version, but I figured coloring it with a bit of Dorian's perspective merited a chapter. And of course, it ends up longer than I hope because I'm the worst. 
> 
> Things will be perking up in the next chapters, believe me!


	7. The Mages and the Templars

The Inquisition had rushed back to Haven ahead of the Templars, to prepare for the inevitable backlash that would occur the moment their new recruits realized what was going on. They found Haven practically swarming with southern mages, cloaked in ratty, worn robes, clearly from their many months on the run. Dorian wondered how it must feel for them, to be so close to the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, where the previous attempt at peace for their kind had quite literally blown up in the faces of their comrades, the results of the tragedy hanging in the sky above their heads. 

Dorian cursed his homeland under his breath. “More of my luck, naturally. Once word spreads that one of my countrymen decided to blow the top off a mountain and wreak havoc down south, it’ll be mere moments before they declare war on the Imperium. There won’t be anything left for me to reform. At least I have a place in the Inquisition.” 

He’d managed to carve out his own little niche, surely, but he was hanging on the fringes and he knew it. Just because Vivienne and Cassandra were no longer completely suspicious of the Tevinter didn’t mean that he’d managed to win their undying favor. If war did break out among Tevinter and the southern nations of Thedas, surely the Inquisition would purge itself of its more questionable allies. Dorian wondered if that meant exile or execution, but frankly, he would be fine with either.

Not like he had anywhere else to go by now, having exhausted all of his options. 

Would the Herald allow the other members of the Inquisition to turn Dorian out so unceremoniously, given all Dorian had personally given to the cause? More importantly, could the Herald stand against them all? He’d done so before, but would twisting their arms any further cause them to break? At the very least, it would strain Trevelyan’s credibility, and with the incoming Templars and the uninformed mages, his credibility couldn’t handle many more blows.

_He means well_ , Dorian thought, _even if he’s an ass._

The Templars would be arriving shortly, Dorian suspected. Before they had left Therinfal, Barris informed the Inquisition that there were still Templar forces scattered throughout Thedas. Dorian wondered if they’d all been poisoned with red lyrium already. He imagined them, twisted into those nightmarish horrors, wondering if their human minds cried out from behind the ghastly song that emanated from the red lyrium. If that were the case, all the more reason to cut them down, he thought. Better to end their suffering. He couldn’t help but think of Felix in that dark future, a shell of his former self, bound to life in a body that no longer seemed his own. Dorian winced at the thought.

He pondered exactly how the Herald’s gamble would ultimately pan out – would the utter shock of realizing that both the rebel Mages and the Templars were congregating under the same banner prevent them from immediately killing each other, at least for long enough for the Inquisition to still their blades? He had half a mind to bet Varric how many minutes it would take for either group to draw their weapons and start spilling blood. He wondered if there was anything even the Herald of Andraste could say or do that would patch the old wounds long enough to unite them against the Breach in the sky.

Dorian looked up at it, marveling in awe at its beauty. Funny, how even the most deadly creatures could be strangely beautiful – a venomous snake, a proud lion, even a Desire Demon taking the form of what your heart wanted most. Maybe that was part of the beauty – knowing that such things could only be appreciated from a safe distance. Knowing you could only look but never touch, he supposed, was all a part of the allure.

Much like Trevelyan.

He grimaced at the thought he knew he ought to have suppressed by now, but they kept coming. The way his hair slipped from the knot on top his head, blowing silvery-blonde in the wind against his lightly tanned skin, his green eyes, laced with the magic of the rift. The way that his nose sloped, straight and gentle, toward his full, pink lips that spread to reveal that smile.

_That perfect, stupid smile._

Trevelyan’s mouth opened in his mind, and laughter came ringing out, in joyous peals. He looked right at Dorian, and his eyes grew warm with recognition. “Dorian?” He asked.

_That voice. Gravelly, but smooth. Like he’d just woken up after a long night of drinking, never fully able to shake yesterday’s evening from the recesses of his velvet throat._

“Dorian?”

_For once, Pavus, that voice isn’t in your mind._

Dorian turned around to find Trevelyan behind him. Without missing a beat, he smiled politely. “Ah, Gabriel. How goes the planning for the Templars’ arrival?

“Oh, you know. Everyone has managed to agree on absolutely nothing. Cassandra isn’t quite sure whether she wants to thank me or throttle me. At this point, I think I’d prefer the latter. If I’m unconscious, I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this.”

“I beg your pardon? You’re looking for a way out _now_? And here I was, thinking I had mastered the art of running away from my problems.”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s the sitting and listening part I’d like to avoid.”

“Oh?”

“That’s not quite right, either.” Trevelyan sighed, frustrated at his inability to accurately articulate his sentiments. He took his hair out of the topknot and let it fall around his face. He brushed his fingers through it absentmindedly – some sort of self-soothing technique? “I appreciate everyone’s viewpoint. More perspective in a situation like this never hurts, of course. However,” his eyes widened for a moment, “once everyone has finished saying their piece, it dissolves into a grand debate on whose opinion is more valuable, or more correct, or at the very least, less wrong. This isn’t like choosing the mages or the Templars – I knew what the right answer was there, at least.”

“And you certainly weren’t afraid to do whatever necessary to make us all see the light.” Dorian said, careful to keep his tone in check. _Mocking Trevelyan would only make him feel worse. But a subtle barb might hook him on the conversation._

“I can’t think about this any longer. Cullen and Leliana were arguing with each other over… I can’t even remember,” His face was heavy, and his voice was breathy with frustration, “and I just stood up and walked out of the War Room. I need a distraction.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his thumb and middle finger.

“So you came to me?” Dorian asked, his tone a blend of genuine curiosity and mock offense. The Herald turned his eyes toward Dorian, and smiled. _Trying to disarm me, are you? I wasn’t aware we were dueling._

“Would you prefer I’d gone to someone else?” He asked. _Oh, he wants to play?_

“That depends. Were you planning on wagging your naughty bits in my face again? Because I do believe I’ve had quite my fill of that.” Dorian said, his voice dripping with a playful disinterest. 

“Really, now? Because I do believe,” the Herald said, his voice mocking Dorian’s, “that I haven’t filled you up with anything at all.” 

The lust dripped from his voice like a healing potion that had been mixed with too much elfroot – thick and pungent, wafting in the air, inviting Dorian to open his mouth and breathe it in deeply.

Dorian’s mind flashed back to the conversation with Vivienne, if only momentarily. He remembered his resolve – nothing would happen with the Herald. But he knew this dance – this wasn’t the suggestive gaze and the silent suggestion of flirtation in the Imperium, for the sake of keeping up appearances in polite company. The Herald was as subtle as a battle cry across a field of a thousand warriors. Any questions about what the Herald was after were immediately dispelled. Steel yourself, Pavus. _You cannot be the one responsible for ruining the Inquisition’s reputation, even if you are particularly adept at that particular task._ But the tendrils of the Herald’s suggestive words wrapped around him, dragging his resolve to its knees. Dorian knew what Trevelyan wanted, and he was willing to oblige.

Dorian leaned against the side of the hut, arms folded in front of his chest. His eyes worked their way up the Herald’s body, from his strong legs to the bulge in between them, up to his waist, his chest, his face. His hair hung down, twisting in rivulets, pooled just above his shoulders. He stared Trevelyan straight in the eye.

“And how, pray tell, do you intend to remedy this gross oversight?” He bit down on his lower lip, letting his teeth drag across it. “I’m amenable to suggestions.”

It was the response Trevelyan was looking for, if the fire burning behind his eyes was any indication. He stepped forward, closing the gap between their bodies, his face but a few inches from Dorian’s. His hand found its way to Dorian’s hip, gently at first, but quickly grasping harder. Dorian’s body roiled at the touch, the headiness of the moment tearing away whatever reserve he had left within him. The Herald’s lips parted, and his voice was primal, like the rumble of a dragon that had just been roused from sleep. “Oh, trust me, I’m full of…”

Their mutual reverie was broken by the shouting that had broken out just outside the gate, feverish and frenzied, as if the entire world had come apart at the seams. 

_Oh, fuck everything._

The Templars had arrived.

___

Dorian and Trevelyan had moved quickly to the gate, joined by Cassandra, Cullen, and Leliana. Josephine and Vivienne following close behind. Sera trailed them tentatively, not looking to get caught in the middle of any fighting, and Solas seemed resigned to a slow saunter towards the ruckus, looking dour as usual. Dorian figured that Solas would be a little more eager to quell the fighting – _it would be awfully hard to fall asleep and enter the Fade with all that racket, now, wouldn’t it?_

Cole appeared alongside the Herald – _Still haven’t quite gotten used to that_ – and murmured, “Shouting, screaming, stunned at the surprise. Why are they here? To hurt and harm?”

“I could have told you that.” Trevelyan muttered.

Their group burst through the front gate, to find the mages and the Templars standing on opposite sides of the field, weapons at the ready. In the middle stood Blackwall, Bull and his Chargers, and a small contingent of Inquisition soldiers, who were attempting to keep the two groups as far apart as possible. Fiona and Barris were shouting over each other and their followers, demanding to know why both groups stood at the gates of the Inquisition.

The Herald’s left hand shot into the air, where it crackled violently, a brilliant green light against the amber hues of the sunset. Silence fell almost instantaneously, save for the crackling of flames and lightning that shot off the fists of the mages. All eyes turned towards the Herald, and not one pair had a hint of kindness in them.

“I demand to know the meaning of this!” Fiona was bold enough to break the silence first. _Questions you ought to have asked the Venatori when they arrived in Redcliffe, Dorian thought._

“You made no mention that the rebel mages would be here, Herald. Do you know what they’ve done?” Barris asked incredulously.

“What we’ve done? So the Templars’ hands are perfectly clean in this conflict?” She shot back at him. The rabble started up again, each side launching insults at each other, accusations of abuse of power, be it the oppressive Circles or blood magic.

“Silence!” The Herald’s voice rang out, loud, crashing over the crowd. The ground beneath him rumbled quietly, before lifting in a small circle around him, elevating him above the rest. _Marvelous_ , Dorian thought. He’d seen mages shape armor out of earth, or utilize projectiles made of stone, and surely, the Herald’s trick was similar, but different. Dorian wondered how much experimentation was allowed in the southern Circles, repurposing old spells for new uses. _Questions that can wait for later, when a battle isn’t brewing at your doorstep, Pavus._

“It is true, that the Inquisition reached out to both groups for assistance in sealing the Breach. It threatens all of Thedas, every man, woman, and child, every mage and Templar. We cannot afford to take chances now, not when the fate of the world hangs quite literally over our heads. The threat to our very existence is so dire that we can no longer be divided. We must put aside our differences, however entrenched those differences are. All of us have the power to help seal the Breach, which means that all of us have a duty to use that power in any way we can to insure that the Breach is closed. I understand that you are frustrated, afraid, and angry, and I do not wish to dismiss those feelings, but if we do not close the Breach, all of Thedas will fall to its power. Everything that you’ve fought for will be meaningless – surely, you see that?”

“And after we help to seal the Breach? Are my people to be dragged right back to the Circles?” The mages rallied behind Fiona, cheering at her challenge to the Herald. The Templars weren’t about to let the mages shout them down, and raised their voices to a roar, over the din of the crowd. The insults and accusations began to fly across the field.

“Looking to drag us back to the Circles? That lonely without your prisoners?”

“Blood mages, the lot of you. You’re abominations waiting to happen!”

“You punish us all for the actions of a select few. You’re too brutish to dole out justice to the deserving; much easier for you fools to just round us all up.”

“Better than risking another Chantry exploding – or a whole mountainside. Tell me, how many of your colleagues died for the sake of killing the Divine and ruining your once chance at peace?”

The Herald stood, his head turned down, his shoulders slumped slightly. He gazed back at the members of the Inquisition, his eyes forlorn, as if he was asking someone to give him an idea. 

Cole stood next to Dorian. “I can’t make them all forget. I… don’t even think it would help.”

“You’re right, Cole. Forgetting won’t fix these problems.” Dorian sucked his teeth. _Well, at least the Herald hasn’t run screaming in the other direction just yet._ He wanted to help, but he doubted the opinion of a Tevinter mage would be valued much more than nug shit. Surely the Herald didn’t think it would be this easy, that he’d be able to recite a passionate appeal and win the hearts and minds of both the Templars and the mages. Sure, they were determined to help with the Breach, but for them, success was a foregone conclusion. They weren’t saddled, like the Herald, with the burden of the Mark weighing upon them – they were instrumental to the plan, surely, but the Herald was the lynchpin. And if it all fell apart – well, surely the Herald would blame himself, if there was anything left of himself to blame. That’s why his insecurity had lead him down this road in the first place.

Dorian had a quick thought. He stepped quickly to the Herald’s side. The Herald’s eyebrows sloped downward, looking all the part of the mournful holy figure. He leaned over, bent at the waist, lowering his face toward Dorian.

“Any ideas?” He asked, mournfully.

Dorian grabbed at the Herald’s shoulder, pulling him close so he wouldn’t miss a word over the din. “You haven’t hesitated to twist arms in the past to get what you wanted, and it’s worked thus far. Why stop now?”

The Herald pulled away, his eyes giving way to a reserved joy, in recognition of the idea that Dorian was trying to plant in his head. He smirked at Dorian, and leaned in close. “I knew you were more than a pretty face. Probably why I find you so alluring.”

Dorian felt the warmth spread out from his chest. He tried stamping it out, but he couldn’t. It was hope – foolish hope – that the Herald was interested in more than just physical pleasures. _He appreciates you for your mind. Maybe, he would grow to appreciate even more._

“You’re only now beginning to appreciate my mind? I’m sure you’ll find I have many alluring attributes. For now, though, you ought to focus on the matter at hand.” 

The Herald smiled, his face like a sun breaking through the clouds that had been holding his shine back. He sucked air into his mouth, and sighed. “Alright. I hope this works.” He stood up, his gaze lingering on Dorian for but a moment, before he turned around. 

A small, private moment in the midst of utter chaos sparked a wildfire within Dorian. The Herald of Andraste, looking down at him with warmth in his eyes. The hope that he’d attempted to suppress for so long bubbled forth so furiously it was painful. Dorian smiled to himself, in spite of the fact that the Herald’s gambit was currently crumbling in front of their faces. _Maybe when this all falls apart, we can run away. Savor the last moments we’ll have before the end of the world._

The Herald’s left hand shot up again, the green light crackling against the shouts and screams of the mages and the Templars. It did nothing to quell their fury. They hadn’t lowered their weapons, and in fact, held them tighter, as if waiting for the other side to twitch in just the wrong way before launching an attack.

The Herald shook his head lightly, and then unleashed a fireball, flaming into the sky. That certainly drew their attention – maybe a little too much, Dorian thought. He felt that creeping sensation of the Fade pulling away, slowly but surely. It began to die down after they realized who had cast the spell, but it sent the mages jittering, arms raised in front of their faces, tugging as much of the Fade toward themselves as possible. The Templars felt the rush in front of them, and they renewed their focus on the mage threat, beginning to yank back at the Fade. _Well that wasn’t the right move_ , Dorian thought, tensing up, his hand inadvertently winding its way back to his staff. Apparently, the Seeker and Sera had similar thoughts, as their hands quickly moved towards their weapons. The tension rose high, both sides fanning the flames. The shouting accusations dropped away, leaving only the sounds of metal armor clinking against knees that bowed in preparation, the song of the wind flapping in the folds of robes.

“NO!” The Herald shouted out, leaping down from his platform in an aggressive bound, throwing himself between both of the groups. His stride illustrated a righteous anger, and his voice dripped with the wrath of a horde of rage demons. “If you want to kill each other, fine, but you’ll have to go through me. The only hope we have of closing the Breach. Would you like to explain to the rest of Thedas how your selfishness and short-sightedness caused the destruction of the world?” 

_And here it is_ , Dorian thought.

“Because I can assure you that the average Theodosian doesn’t sympathize with your plight. They outnumber you by the thousands. How do you think they all feel about this war? You think they’re busy picking sides? No. The citizens of Thedas care little for your plight, because all you’ve brought them is war and violence, and they are but victims in the crossfire.”

_Beautiful._

“The only thing the average person cares about is staying safe, living their life, practicing their trade, providing for their families – not wondering whether or not the conflict between the mages and the Templars will tear through their village and leave them with nothing. They would be more than happy to be rid of all of you-“ The Herald pointed to the mages, who recoiled in shock, before he turned to the Templars, “-and without them, they wouldn’t have any need for you, and would summarily disband the Order – lyrium addictions be damned.”

Both groups stood silently, stunned at the Herald. They still clung on to their weapons, but their poses were no longer aggressive, replaced instead by a growing anxiousness. The Herald’s words stung, and it was apparent that the truth was starting to sink in. _It always hurts, looking into a mirror and seeing your ugly reality glaring back at you, cold and unfeeling. Not that I would know, Maker forbid_ , Dorian thought.

“And why shouldn’t they be apathetic to your plight? Neither side has been beyond reproach!” He turned to the mages, the fire building in his eyes. “The Circles were not the solution, but everything that’s happened since – do you think you’ve earned your freedom? Do you think you’ve proven to the people of Thedas that you are worthy of being trusted, running wild throughout the countryside?”

Heads dropped, and eyes shifted nervously under the weight of the Herald’s harangue. The Templars huffed in agreement, puffing proudly for a moment. The Herald heard the noise behind him and spun violently. 

“And you all! Keeping us under lock and key, unable to swerve the commands of your superiors even in light of overwhelming evidence that their actions were wrong! There’s blind faith, and there’s willful ignorance – which do you think the people will judge you for? That’s not to mention your abandoning the Chantry.”

He paced back and forth, like a wolf toying with his prey, knowing full well that he could have them by the throat if he so wished. 

Dorian couldn’t help but find the Herald extremely attractive in this moment. 

“Precisely why you were both so easily manipulated at Redcliffe, and at Therinfal. While the Inquisition was in Redcliffe, Alexius and the Venatori mentioned their leader, some megalomaniacal lunatic calling himself, ‘The Elder One.’ He isolated your from your only remaining allies and manipulated your fear, causing you to accept aid from the Tevinters. And at Therinfal Redoubt, Knight Captain Denam and the Envy Demon both mentioned the Elder One. He knew that he could poison your order from the top down, and that those who did not bow to their commanders would be easily overpowered. He would have been successful in both Redcliffe and Therinfal, had the Inquisition not stepped in to save you.”

The Herald had managed to dampen the fire. He certainly hadn’t fixed a single problem, but he’d averted the imminent battle. The Templars had lowered their blades, and the mages’ hands dropped to their sides, free of fire or ice. 

“And here you find yourself, in spite of everything, standing at the front door of the Inquisition. This is the last place either of you have to turn. Who else would take you at this point, other than the Venatori and the Red Templars? If you would like to be enslaved to their cause, by all means, feel free to leave and seek them out. But the Inquisition offers you the opportunity to join us both as free allies – the only thing we ask in return is that you aid us in sealing the Breach. You both recognize the generousness of this offer – we are not binding you in service, we don’t require oaths of loyalty. You have the opportunity to stay here, to rebuild yourselves, to determine your own futures. And you will have the support of the Inquisition in making those decisions, whatever aid or guidance we can provide you.”

The Herald’s tone had changed, from fiery to earnest, sure, but the passion still roiled underneath. Dorian stood there, in awe. _In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame_. He held no love for the Chantry or its silly tales, even if he did believe in the Maker and his Bride, but he couldn’t help but believe that maybe, in spite of Trevelyan’s own doubt, he truly was the Herald of Andraste.

“Aside from all of that, closing the Breach is an endeavor that benefits you both. If the Breach remains open, then all mages – including myself – are at increased risk of becoming possessed, and I know that none of us want that.” His eyes looked over the rebel mages, full of sympathy. He turned back to the Templars, his eyes still soft, “Abominations that you will be responsible for slaying, not to mention whatever demons will keep pouring out of the Breach. Stay, and assist us with this endeavor. Surely, we can broker a peace that will last at least until the Breach has been closed. And, it is my sincerest hope that we can grow that peace and build something truly meaningful for both of you. A Circle, run by mages, with opportunities for each of us to live in the world beyond its walls. A Templar Order, run by the Templars, able to be the protectors of the innocents to whom you swore an oath.” His eyes glowed with possibility. “And Thedas will know that the mages and Templars came to her aid in her time of need, laid down their arms, and joined together to close the Breach that threatens all her people, to restore peace and sanity. Surely, there is nothing more immediate that either group could do to win the hearts and minds of the peoples of Thedas?”

The swords had been sheathed. The staves had been planted in the ground. An uneasy peace drifted over the field, the sound of the wind weaving through hundreds of bodies the only noise Dorian could hear other than the sound of his own heart beating in his ears. _Another small miracle, I suppose. I should start a tally. I’m sure Varric already has._

The Herald looked up to the Breach. “I am wary to mention this last bit, but if it will help to sway any hearts and minds, then I would be a fool not to. They’ve called me the Herald of Andraste – delivered from the Fade by the hand of the Bride of the Maker herself. I don’t know if that’s true – I don’t remembered what happened at the Conclave, and the resulting explosion.” Trevelyan took in a deep breath. “No matter what you believe, closing the Breach is my mission. Regardless of whether this mission is ordained or mundane, it is still mine, and I cannot do it alone. I need as much help as I can get, and you are the only ones who can help me. I beseech you. Join me, under the banner of the Inquisition, to seal the Breach.”

The Herald stood between the two groups, his impassioned speech having made its mark. Both sides looked tentatively towards each other, seemingly afraid to make the first move. The Herald’s eyes wandered, glancing, hoping for any sign of agreement.

A Templar stepped forward, kneeling before the Herald, his blade planted at side, his fist resting over his heart. 

“I will aid you in your cause, to help the innocents I swore to protect, and to rebuild the honor of the Templar Order.”

The Herald looked down at him, a smile beginning to tug at the corners of his lips.

“’Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.’” A mage stepped forward, her spritely figure a contrast to the broad build of the Templar kneeling by the Herald. “It is our time to serve. I pledge you my aid.” She curtsied deeply to the Herald.

Heads began to nod, in silent approval, but faces remained frozen. A tentative peace, Dorian supposed. _Well, at the very least, they won’t be warring in Haven._

The Herald turned to Fiona and Barris, who stepped politely towards each other. He extended his hand towards her. 

“Peace?” He offered.

“For now.” She said coyly. “But we cannot neglect our greater issues for too long.”

“Of course not, Fiona.” The Herald stepped in. “For the moment, I ask that your groups stay separated from each other. If you have any members among your ranks who would be willing to act as intermediaries, who may sympathize with the other side, then I would suggest having those people deal with any quarrels that may arise. Both groups will have equal access to all our amenities – if we need to arrange access in shifts, so be it. The Inquisition will provide you with any food or shelter you require. Commander Cullen, Ambassador Montilyet, Sister Leliana, and Seeker Pentaghast will be able to assist you with any issues, as will I, so please do not hesitate to come to us with any of your concerns.” 

Dorian could practically hear Cassandra’s eyes roll. The Lady Seeker would rather be sucked into the Breach than deal with the petty problems to which the Herald had just exposed her. _She’s probably making that little noise in the back of her throat_. Dorian could have sworn he heard it.

“Josephine?” Trevelyan called out to her. The Lady Ambassador hurriedly made her way to the Herald’s side. Dorian noticed that her gait, normally a graceful glide, was punctuated by anxiety, causing her normally even footfalls to be ever so slightly erratic. Considering all that had just transpired, he could hardly blame her for being a bit on edge.

“Yes, your Grace?” _Ever the stateswoman._

“I know that you had made contact with Orzammar to secure lyrium for our efforts in sealing the Breach. Do you have any updates that you can share?”

“Certainly, your Grace. I have reached out to one of my Dwarven contacts, Lady Korpin. She has informed me that we can expect our shipment to arrive by the end of the week. I have spoken with both Harritt and Adan, who will be assisting in the preparation of the lyrium for use by our allies.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Lady Montilyet.” The Herald smiled warmly at Josephine. “So, a week and a half’s time, and we should be prepared to assault the Breach. I sincerely hope that we can maintain peace for that long.” 

“Herald,” _Fiona, always taking the opportunity to insert herself._ “My people will certainly be able to stay themselves until the Breach is sealed, but we cannot promise anything after.”

The Herald turned to face her. Were there already cracks forming in his temporary accord? “What are you getting at, Fiona?”

“You have made no promises about what will happen to my people after the Breach has been sealed. Where will we go? Will we be exiled again? Hunted down by the Templars, just as we were before?”

Barris stood, jaw clenched, looking off at nothing in particular. Dorian wondered, with the hierarchy of the Order yanked out from under them, would Barris be able to help the remaining Templars back to their feet? Or would the group inevitably splinter off, unable to be controlled?

The Herald sighed heavily, the air catching in his throat, turning the sound into a growl. He tilted his head towards the sky for a moment, then back down to face reality. 

“Fine.” The Herald said, trying desperately to control the frustration in his voice. “Grand Enchanter Fiona, Ser Barris, please, follow me. We will head to the Chantry, where we can discuss your concerns so that we might extend this peace past the closing of the Breach. Consider it a second chance at the negotiations promised by the Conclave – I may not have the reach or influence of the late Divine, but surely, if we can manage to begin to shape some type of agreement between both your groups, the Chantry will eventually have to accept what we offer, since they have proposed no alternatives.”

_An impromptu Conclave? Hopefully this one doesn’t end up in another explosion._

The Herald’s offer seemed to still Fiona. There may be cracks in the accord, but the foundation was sturdy enough to last, at least for a short while. The Herald began to move towards the Chantry. Fiona and Barris followed intently. 

“Herald-“ Cassandra cut in, “- Commander Cullen and I will remain here with the Inner Circle to assure that the mages and Templars establish their separate camps. We will take care of all the details.” Dorian admired how dutiful the woman was, even though he knew she was already grimacing at the thought of playing peacekeeper. _A problem she cannot cut her way through._

“Thank you, Cassandra. Leliana, Josephine, please, come with us. Cassandra and Cullen – you may join us after the mages and Templars have been tended to.”

The Herald began to move quickly towards the gates of Haven. As he passed by Dorian, he leaned ever so slightly, and muttered in Dorian’s ear: 

“More sitting and listening. _Marvelous_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I had finals. LOL. WHAT FINALS?!?!
> 
> I guess I can learn the complexities of Antitrust law in a day, right? 
> 
> Also, thanks to everyone for all the love! The little Kudos e-mails in the morning are a lovely way to start the day.
> 
> Oh, and I promise we're getting somewhere with this flirtation. THE SMUT COMETH.


	8. The Breach Closes In

The past several days in Haven had been tense, to put it mildly. The Inquisition forces were on high alert, scattered about the camps, in order to insure that any minor scuffles between mages and Templars were quashed before they ignited into an unstoppable blaze. Their dedication was admirable, surely, but Dorian couldn’t help but feel agitated that the two factions had seemingly forgotten their prior promise to keep the peace until the Breach was sealed. _And after the Herald laid it on so thick._

The Herald had been all but sequestered in the War Room of the Chantry with Barris and Fiona, a few choice mages and Templars, and rotating members of the Inner Circle. Dorian had not been asked to join the discussions, but he reminded himself to not take that oversight personally, even though it was certainly personal. It was another gentle reminder of the fact that he was of Tevinter, and therefore, other. His input was not required, especially when it came to the affairs of southerners. _As if you’d provide much more than snark. Besides, when did you develop an affinity for parsing out the terms of a peace treaty?_

Dorian rolled his eyes at himself. _Trevelyan._ Dorian would sit through a day’s worth of Chantry services just for the opportunity to be near the Herald, for even a moment’s chance to sneak away and finish their conversation of a few days earlier. The memory kicked up flames in Dorian’s chest, spreading throughout his body. Dorian knew what the Herald wanted: a warm body to press himself against, slick with sweat, to touch, to feel, to explore. The Herald was quite a specimen, and in spite of whatever Dorian believed about his own immunity to their power, the Herald’s charms were undeniable. If anything, the Herald would make a lovely notch on his bedpost – not that the unbearable cot he’d been forced to sleep in had a bedpost. 

_Oh, no one’s listening – well, Cole probably is – you can admit it._

Dorian’s mind flashed to the moment where Trevelyan looked down on him from the earthen pillar he’d raised from the ground, in front of the two warring factions. The private moment shared between the two, in spite of the chaos swirling violently around them. More than a pretty face.

_You haven’t even kissed him yet, Pavus. Besides, if this ends up a love story, then inevitably, one of you will have to die. And the way this tale is developing, you know it won't be you._

___

 

In spite of the tension that clung to the air of Haven, there was one place that Dorian could find a moment’s respite from the looming threat of a violent outbreak. The Tavern.

Dorian had developed an easy rapport with Flissa, the barkeep. She was a kind young woman who excelled at her job – she kept the tankards full, the conversation light, and the people distracted from the hole in the sky. Dorian appreciated that she addressed him by his name, instead of by the name of his country, and never let the conversation drift past the basic questions – _How was your day? What would you like to drink? Mind helping them drag that drunkard outside?_

_What a gem._

The Tavern was a relative safe zone, save for the occasional visits by the Templars and the rebel mages, who came to procure liquor to bring back to their respective camps. Sure, a few among their numbers wandered into the Tavern and stayed for a drink and a conversation, but they only lingered for as long as it took to empty their glasses. Dorian supposed that they were afraid to alienate their comrades by fraternizing with those outside their respective groups. _How base_ , Dorian thought, _bowing to the whims of your supposed comrades. Maker forbid that a mage and a Templar be caught exchanging anything other than fisticuffs_. Hopefully, the Herald was making some headway with Fiona and Barris, so the pretenses could be dropped and all could freely enjoy the simple pleasures of wine and whiskey.

Dorian had enjoyed his evening, having downed a bottle of Orlesian wine while watching Sera goad several soldiers into arm-wrestling matches. Of course, she wasn’t participating – couldn’t damage her bow arm – but she certainly celebrated each game like she had been the victor, smashing her tankard in a raucous ‘cheers!’ and chugging its contents like a true champion. It livened the spirits of the soldiers, something Dorian supposed they sorely needed, and he admired her for her efforts, however ridiculous they might seem to him.

He’d also spent some time getting to know some of Bull’s chargers. He’d discussed healing potions and alchemy with Stitches, whose crude knowledge certainly wouldn’t have matched the refined expertise of someone like Vivienne. However, Dorian admired his hard-earned skillset – apparently, he could cobble together some potent poultices with only the most basic of ingredients. Dorian made a mental note to explore this information further. He tried to speak with Dalish, but the elf’s insistence that she was not, in fact, a mage and that her weapon was not, in fact, a staff, put him off quickly.

He’d been less than eager to converse with Krem – a fellow Tevinter expatriate, however, not one of Dorian’s station. Dorian’s fears were confirmed when Krem referred to him as _Altus_ , with an acerbic bite in his voice. 

“Not that my title means anything in these parts.” Dorian quipped back, hoping to steer the conversation in a different direction.

“How much did it mean to your slaves?” Krem asked, his brows furrowed.

“I’m not saying Tevinter is perfect-“ Dorian started

“Far from it.” Krem said.

“- but I believe that there is still something there worth salvaging.” Dorian said. Krem grunted. _Well, I suppose that’s that_. Dorian stood up to take his leave.

He bade everyone good evening, brought his tankard back to Flissa, and walked out the door of the Tavern back towards his tiny hut.

The walk was short, thankfully, for the cool evening air turned harsh with the wind that blew through the village. Dorian couldn’t imagine a cloak warm enough to keep the chill out for long. 

As he’d neared his hovel, he noticed a bald figure, standing in the moonlight, gazing up at the Breach, ears pointed at the tips. _Solas._

Dorian debated for a moment whether or not to approach the elf – every conversation Dorian had with him seemed to end in Solas finding another reason to take issue with Dorian’s very existence. However, Dorian was feeling bold, or at least bolder than usual. _Probably that bottle of wine, I should think._

“Good evening, Solas.” He called out.

Solas turned in recognition of his own name, his movements graceful but confounded by the rigidness of his purpose. It was an odd but fitting juxtaposition, considering how strange he was, even for an elven apostate.

“Ah, Dorian. Making your way back from the Tavern? Earlier than usual, it seems.”

“Yes, well, you know how it goes. Someone brings up the word Tevinter, eyes turn towards me, daggers begin to fly, and I have to beat a hasty retreat. It just happened a little sooner than I would have liked on this particular evening.”

Solas did not laugh. His stoicism in the face of Dorian’s exceptional wit irritated Dorian greatly.

Dorian decided to change the subject. He followed Solas’ gaze, towards the green glow in the sky. “So, what do you make of all this? Will the Herald actually succeed?”

“Do you doubt him so?” Solas asked, his face softening slightly, his eyes turning towards Dorian. “There is no alternative for the Herald other than success. I am certainly he will perform admirably.”

Dorian nodded, “I certainly hope so.”

“You forget, Dorian, that I have been in Haven since the Herald emerged from the Fade, bearing the Mark on his hand. It was I who kept the Mark from killing him in the days that he lay unconscious in the cells underneath the Chantry. I watched as he closed a Rift for the first time, and many more after that. I have seen the Herald and his power grow. I am certain that he will be able to seal the Breach, once and for all.” Solas uttered, his voice as plain and unwavering as his expression.

“Wait a moment. When you say you’ve, ‘seen his power grow,’ are you referring to those little bursts we witnessed in Therinfal?” Dorian couldn’t shake the feeling that Solas knew, or at least suspected, more about the Mark than he let on.

Solas sighed heavily. “That is a part of it, yes.” His gaze wandered around the immediate area, as if to check for eyes or ears that would overhear their little conversation. He turned towards Dorian, and took a step closer. “When I had first met the Herald, I would have estimated his magical ability as average. He was competent, practiced, studied, but certainly not exceptional. He wielded his skill with ease, but not talent. As he began to close more Rifts, I noticed a change. His movements have become less strained and more fluid. He used to pull at the Fade, but now it flows like water. The flames he calls forth burn hotter; the ice freezes quicker.”

“So you’re saying that the Mark has improved his magical abilities?” Dorian’s voice was tinged with wonder. 

“It is more than that. It is not a simple improvement – it is a change, a transformation.”

“You don’t seem to believe that this is a good thing.”

“I am unsure what to make of it, exactly.”

“Well, what are you thinking, then? I can never quite tell.”

Solas’ eyes shifted to the side, glancing at Dorian as if to acknowledge his snarky comment. He looked back up towards the Breach. 

“All we know of the Mark is that it can close. But rarely in this world does something close, without also being able to open. The Herald is capable of sealing Rifts. What other powers may be hiding within the Mark?” He stared off, solemnly, as the green light danced across his unknowable face. Dorian felt the cold air press against him in a frosty sheet of wind. For a moment, he wasn’t sure which was colder – the night air or his elven companion.

Dorian stared up at the Breach once more, his mind full of questions, some of which he had to accept that no one might ever be able to answer. He hoped that this Elder One would be able to shed some light on the power that the Herald had been imbued with, once they found out who he was. Dorian rededicated himself to his purpose, to aid the Inquisition, and to help stop the Elder One. He added a new task to his mental list: Protect the Herald from anything, including the Mark upon his hand.

“Good night, Solas.” Dorian turned and bowed his head politely to the mage. He turned to walk towards the warmth of his hut.

“To you as well, Dorian.” Solas gently called to Dorian’s back.

___

 

Dorian opened the door to his quarters, a tiny little box of a cabin with a bed, a table, and a small fireplace, which his instantly ignited with a graceful wave of his hand. 

He reached into his pocket, and grabbed at what rested within – Alexius’ amulet. He had not, in fact, destroyed it after their trip through time, in spite of his better judgment. He reasoned that there was still some use that the amulet could be put to, for the benefit of the Inquisition. The Breach was the sole reason that the amulet was even able to function, and once it was closed, Dorian assumed that the object would lose most, if not all, of its potency. 

Still, he knew that with a few tweaks, he could adjust the amulet into something simpler, with a limited scope that would give him access to the ability to manipulate time in a small field for a limited duration. Certainly, such a skill could potentially save the lives of the members of the Inquisition during the heat of battle. 

He set the amulet down on the table, and rifled through the small chest at the foot of his cot for some paper and ink. _This would be significantly easier to do with my notes on the subject, but those are all comfortably tucked away in Alexius’ study. I certainly hope Felix doesn’t die before he has a chance to pack up his father’s library and ship it down to me._

He set to work, trying to reach past the wall that the wine had erected in his mind, into the banks of his memory. _What was that discovery I had made about the synchronicity of the pooling ambient energy?_ He toiled for a few hours, opening a bottle of wine he’d managed to pilfer from the Tavern while Flissa was otherwise occupied, and when the words on the paper became blurrier than his memory, he decided to turn in for the evening.

He lay in bed, eyes staring at the ceiling of his little abode, tracing the grain of the wood across the planks. 

_I’ll figure out a way to modify the amulet. Another way for me to protect Trevelyan._

___

Dorian awoke the next morning. The light hit his eyes, and he felt the dull ache rise in his head. _Your payment for that second bottle last night_. He rolled over onto his stomach and shoved his face into his pillow. He moaned lowly, trying to think of what he needed to accomplish that day. He had promised Leliana that he’d teach her agents some additional spells and wards that may prove useful – if he could manage to catch her outside of the War Room. He thought back to her acceptance of his offer of assistance.

“That would be most welcome, Dorian. You were quite the prodigy in your homeland, were you not?” She had asked. Dorian felt as though the question was rhetorical. “I’m sure that my agents would appreciate your expertise – it has helped you survive thus far.”

Dorian wondered how thick Leliana’s dossier on him was, and how many of his deepest secrets were laid bare in that assuredly voluminous collection. 

He pulled himself up, dangling his feet off the bed, feeling the cold sweep up his legs.

“Kaffas,” he yawned, as he rubbed his eyes with his fingers. He stood up, stretching the length of his nude body, feeling the light poking through the curtains against his skin. He missed the marble floors of the homes he had been lucky to stay in – they were certainly a step above the ground currently beneath Dorian’s feet. He curled his toes and rubbed his hands down his chest and stomach, stopping right below his belly button, where his hands froze. He pondered, for a moment, whether he should move his hands down further, roll back into bed and close his eyes; allow himself a few moments of pleasure while his hand worked his cock.

_Any excuse to think of the Herald naked._

He was still slightly swollen from his sleep, the blood flowing generously to all parts of his body. It wouldn’t take much to bring himself the rest of the way – just a quick thought of the Herald standing in that stream, rubbing Dorian’s back clean had been the go-to memory that pushed him over the edge as of late.

His body fell back against his bed, his right hand stroking the length of his shaft, twisting ever so when he reached the head, and falling back down, only to repeat the motion more vigorously, again and again. His left hand rubbed up his taut stomach, which rose and fell with the quickening of his breath, eventually finding his way up to his chest, lightly pinching at his nipples. His hips bucked gently, in unison with the motion of his hand. He quickened his pace, thinking back to the stream, imagining how things might have gone differently.

_The Herald, working the soap down to my ass, before dropping the pretense and wrapping his arms around me, pressing his beautiful body against my back, twisting my head back, meeting my lips with his, his hands sliding down to my cock, stroking, teasing, before spinning me around and thrusting against me vigorously, his hand wrapped around both of us, tugging us closer to the edge with every movement of his strong, nimble hand. We fall back, into the water, into each other, closer, harder, faster, until…_

Dorian finished all over himself, in fits and sputters, grunting low with each release. The cold air of his cabin was no match for the warmth that flooded his body, the heated glow of his orgasm relaxing all of his muscles, as his lungs strained against the weight of his success. 

He lay there for a minute, reveling in his dissipating fantasy. He felt the reality start to creep in. He knew that these little imaginary moments would only keep him sated for so long. All he wanted was to sink his teeth into the real thing.

He groped around for a rag, wiped himself down, and sighed. _Time to get yourself sorted, so you can get on with your day._

He pulled his clothing on and mussed his hair into order. He looked at the small mirror that rested on the table, as he twisted the tips of his mustache.

_Perfect, as usual._

___

 

It was earlier than Dorian would have thought, but he’d managed to scrounge up some breakfast and decided to traipse around the grounds. He noticed a bunch of dwarves making their way towards Adan’s makeshift apothecary, carting a litany of crates with them. _This must be the lyrium_. Dorian wanted to get a little closer to catch a whiff – he loved the smell of the stuff, raw and potent. He wondered if it was a personal preference or something that all mages experienced.

He stood near the Quartermaster’s tent, watching the boxes pass by, when he noticed the Herald slinking up the stairs, looking like he’d be trampled by a herd of Druffalo. His walk was listless, his eyes were dark, and his arms were wrapped around his middle, in what Dorian assumed was an attempt to keep himself upright. Dorian wondered what had happened. 

The Herald looked up for a moment, errantly catching Dorian’s gaze, before breaking out into a smile. His eyes brightened almost magically, and his arms unraveled from his sides to give a polite wave. He walked up to the wall below where Dorian was standing, and called out. 

“Well, hello there. You look well-rested.” 

“I wish I could say the same for you. Did you decide to go rolling down the Frostbacks face first this morning?”

“The talks with Fiona and Barris have been absolutely draining. Three. Straight. Days.” The Herald exaggerated his speech, punctuating each word while his head bobbed back and forth. 

“Did you expect that you’d be able to magically close the Rift between the mages and Templars with such ease?” Dorian’s tone was light, and playful. _I can be your distraction._

The Herald laughed. “No, I suppose I should have known what I was getting myself into.”

“Have you made any headway, or are Fiona and Barris putting up resistance?”

“To be honest, both parties have been amenable to discussion. So amenable, in fact, that we’ve spent three days in that room discussing every single aggression, failure, and misunderstanding. We’ve just barely gotten to planning for what happens next –whether the Circles and the Order will be reformed, or whether we start from scratch.” The Herald sidled up to the wall, and turned around, placing his hands behind him, to pick himself up. He popped up, seating himself with his feet dangling off the wall. Dorian joined him reflexively, sitting close, but not too close. _Too public a space to crawl onto his lap, push him to the ground, and defile him right in front of the Chantry._

The Herald looked to Dorian, and smiled unabashedly. “After the past few days, I could care less about southern politics. I almost wish the Breach would suck this mess all up.” He laughed darkly, and Dorian joined him. “I’m not ready to sequester myself in the War Room for another day. I have some time, and I’d like to think about anything but mages, or Templars, or Circles.”

“Is there anything I can do to take your mind off all this?” Dorian asked, leaning back on his arms, tilting his head.

The Herald turned, his eyebrow cocked. “Tell me all about Tevinter.”

 _At least he keeps things interesting_. Dorian chuckled, “Are you sure? If you’re sick of the South, I can’t imagine you’d find any solace in the North.”

“I’m not looking for solace, just the cold comfort of knowing that somewhere is just a little worse than here.” He laughed wickedly. 

“Ha! Well, then,” Dorian said, reveling in the chance to take some of the Herald’s time, “where would you like me to begin?”

____

 

“And when he finally stopped convulsing at his feet, the Divine looked up from the corpse and said, ‘Well, since I’m here, I may as well bless the body before they take it away for cremation.’”

The Herald roared with laughter. The fatigue that had plagued the Herald’s face had all but vanished, and Dorian couldn’t be happier that he’d been able to give the Herald this little reprieve. Well, it wasn’t little. The sun had risen higher in the sky since they had first sat down, but no one had come to fetch the Herald, thankfully. Maybe they had all realized that he needed the break, or maybe they had been occupied by the lyrium shipment. _More likely the latter_ , Dorian thought.

“The Black Divine sounds like quite the comedian.” The Herald said. 

“Oh, not at all. He’s absolutely humorless – which just makes him even more hilarious.”

“I can tell how much you love your homeland, in spite of all its flaws.” 

“That would make me the only Tevinter in Haven who still appreciates my homeland.”

“Oh?” The Herald’s eyes searched Dorian’s face. 

“Ah, yes. Well, it’s certainly nothing to worry about, but Krem, Bull’s lieutenant? He also fled Tevinter, but under extremely different circumstances.”

“My understanding is that he was a slave. Or that his family was, before he joined the military.”

“Yes, well, he certainly bears no love for the Imperium.”

“Do you think that he should?” The Herald’s tone had shifted, ever so slightly.

“I don’t think it’s my place to say how he should feel.” Dorian tried to move the conversation away from the direction in which it was heading.

“Tell me about slavery in the Imperium.” The Herald’s voice dropped. Dorian cringed internally. He knew the southern perspective towards slavery. He desperately wanted to avoid this topic. _Why did you have to mention Krem?_ “Did you have slaves, Dorian?” The Herald’s tone wasn’t exactly cold, but it certainly wasn’t the warm curiosity that permeated his other questions about the Imperium.

Dorian swallowed hard. “Not personally, but my family does and treats them well. Honestly, I never thought much about it until I came south. Back home, it’s… how it is? Slaves are everywhere. You don’t question it. I’m not even certain many slaves do.”

“You think slaves like it that way? Don’t be ridiculous.” The warmth had gone. He glared at Dorian. 

“I didn’t say they _like_ it. It’s all most of them know. In the South you have alienages, slums both human and elven. The desperate have no way out.” _Maker, Dorian, why are you arguing this?_ He was possessed, clearly. He couldn’t stop the words coming out of his mouth. _You’re out of practice with holding your tongue._ “Back home, a poor man can sell himself. As a slave, he could have a position of respect, comfort, and could even support a family.” _Shut up!_ “Some slaves are treated poorly, it’s true, but do you honestly think inescapable poverty is better?”

The Herald’s jaw was practically dragging on the ground. _Well, Dorian, looks like you’ll be relegated to masturbation fantasies. Good work_. The Herald closed his mouth and turned his head, looking out over the camp, to the peaks in the distance. His face was stone, lines of anger etched into his brow. But magically, all the lines softened. His jaw unclenched, his mouth smoothed itself out.

He turned back to look at Dorian, his eyes soft. “I understand the point you are trying to make. What choice, really, do those who find themselves locked in alienages truly have? But the reality is, they at least have some choice. No slave in the Imperium has a choice; everything is decided for them. Do I think what is done to the poor here in the South is acceptable? No, of course not. But a slave, even a slave who is treated well, is still bound to the will of another. How would you feel if you’d found yourself in that position?”

Trevelyan’s words pierced Dorian to the core, his tone perfectly calm and civilized. _Those three days in the War Room have certainly made an impact._ The Herald couldn’t possibly have had any idea how close to home those words had hit. Bound to the will of another. Dorian tried to maintain a semblance of calm, but his face belied his intentions. 

“Dorian?” The Herald asked. Dorian gathered his composure, like magic pulled from the Fade.

“I suppose that you are right.” His tone was as apologetic as he could muster, considering that apologizing was a concept that was completely foreign to him. 

“Don’t suppose; I want you to think on it.” The Herald looked at Dorian and smirked. “I know that you think that all Southerners are absolute barbarians, but I’d like to think we’ve gotten a few things right. If you are as intent on reforming the Imperium as you say, then maybe you can spend some time broadening your horizons, gaining some perspective.”

“It’s probably not your worst idea. Maker knows there are plenty to choose from.” 

“Believe me, I’m aware.” The Herald’s deadpan was delightfully charming. “But I’m serious – don’t deny yourself this opportunity for growth.”

“You sound like a Chantry sister.”

“Funnily enough, that’s exactly who used to give me that advice.”

They smiled at one another, savoring this quiet moment. 

“I see the lyrium has arrived.” Dorian said, trying to stoke the embers of the conversation.

“Yes, this morning. Fiona and Barris descended upon the dwarves nigh instantaneously, so that their people wouldn’t be short-changed. I left Josephine there to deal with the fighting. She’s been so lovely these past few days. Without her, I would have probably lit the Chantry on fire, with me in it.”

“The Lady Ambassador does excel at maintaining her kind disposition, even under the most trying of circumstances.”

“She certainly does. I think it’s rubbing off on me, thankfully.”

“I’d noticed.” Dorian smiled.

Trevelyan smiled, and he looked towards the gate, which had just opened. One of Leliana’s agents had just come through, walking towards where they were sitting with determination. “Now that the lyrium has arrived, this means that there isn’t much time left until we can make our final assault on the Breach.” The thought had drained the joy from his face. 

“Gabriel,” Dorian pulled himself closer to the Herald, “I know that you are fearful of the prospect of failure, but I believe in you.” Trevelyan turned his head back to Dorian. 

“Thank you, Dorian.”

“Herald!” The agent called out. 

“What’s going on?” Trevelyan slid off the ledge, standing on the ground. Dorian stood up, folding his arms over his chest, scoffing internally. _We’ll never get a moment alone, will we?_

The agent was out of breath. He managed to compose himself long enough to compose a sentence. “The Fallow Mire… Some of our agents were captured… by Avvar… We need your help.”

The Herald nodded. “Go find Leliana and Cullen. Inform them of the situation. We’ll send a party out to the Mire immediately.”

“Yes, your Grace… Right away, your Grace.” The agent turned and started to run again, clutching his side. 

The Herald looked up at Dorian. 

“Anything to get out of another day of peace talks, I suppose?” Dorian mused.

“The Lady Ambassador hasn’t managed to transform me into a diplomat just yet. I don’t suppose you’d have any interest in accompanying us?”

“Let’s see, the Fallow Mire – a cold, rainy swamp full of undead and _real_ Southern Barbarians? Forgive me, but I think I’ll forego this particular foray.”

“Suit yourself. You can stick around here, pray to the Maker that the mages and Templars don’t kill each other and leave Haven in flames.” Cullen was fast approaching the pair.

“Believe me, I’ll enjoy every moment.”

___

 

The Herald returned to Haven six days later, looking like a dog that had rolled around in the mud. Blackwall, Cole, and Bull looked no better off.

“Who would have thought a swamp full of a seemingly unlimited amount of undead would be so taxing? Yes, Cullen, our men have been saved. And Josephine? I recruited a new agent for you – he’s an Avvar. The Inquisition wasn’t strange enough for my tastes.”

“An Avvar emissary could be extremely valuable, should the Inquisition encounter any hostile tribes. I am certain he will prove to be a most valuable recruit. Thank you, your Grace.” Josephine’s diplomatic finesse was unflappable.

“You always see the bright side of things, Lady Montilyet.” 

“I recognize opportunities where they present themselves, your Grace.” She explained. “Since your departure, I have continued to meet with Grand Enchanter Fiona and Ser Barris. The peace talks continue to show promise – we have begun to solidify some of the more abstract ideas into a legitimate plan for the reformation of the Circles and the Templar Order.”

“Have they both agreed to the provision regarding representation of the opposing faction within their hierarchies?”

“Fiona was… hesitant, to say the least, but once we explained to her that any Templar representatives within the reformed Circles would not be so numerous as to prevent the mages from governing themselves, she understood. Ser Barris seemed amenable to the idea as well – he is of the opinion that a mage’s perspective could help to guarantee that the Templars do not regress toward their perceived former role as the jailors of mages.”

“Thank you for taking care of this while I was gone, Josephine.”

“Certainly, your Grace.”

“Herald,” Cullen took the opening, “I hope your mission in the Fallow Mire was not too demanding – all the preparations for our final assault on the Breach have been completed. Solas and Vivienne have been working with the Grand Enchanter and the mages, and the Lady Seeker and I have done the same with Ser Barris and the Templars.”

“So that means…” The Herald’s voice trailed off, as his gaze lost focus. He stared off into space. The silence of the War Room was cloying, as everyone looked at him politely. 

“Tomorrow.” Cullen quietly confirmed. The Herald’s empty gaze lasted for but a few more moments. He inhaled and gathered himself.

“Alright, then. I should very much like to take a warm bath, to remind myself that not all water is infested with corpses. I will then meet with the mages and the Templars before dinner to go over the final details of the plan. After dinner, we will reconvene here for any final issues that may need to be handled before our mission tomorrow. Thank you all.”

And he turned and walked out of the war room, his gait shaky under the weight of the realization that the moment had finally arrived. Everything that had happened over the course of the past few months, the entire reason that the Inquisition had propped him up, the countless uphill battles that he had to fight, all of it boiled down to one moment.

The door closed behind him. 

“D’you think he can do it?” Sera asked, to no one in particular. The question hung in the air for a moment; no one was quite too eager to respond.

“We shall see tomorrow, my dear.” Vivienne responded, again to no one in particular. “Once and for all.”

___

 

They had reconvened in the War Room, for what exactly, Dorian was unsure. They’d already gone over the finer points of tomorrow’s mission with the mages and the Templars. _March to the Breach, Herald waves his hand, Breach closes, world saved_. The Herald had carried himself stoically, but Dorian could see a slight tremor in some of his motions – reaching out to extend a hand, shifting his weight between legs – that belied his reticent exterior. 

He said very little, shaking his head when he could get away with a simple yes-or-no response, and carefully curtailing his responses to mask the uncertainty in his voice. Dorian wondered if anyone else had noticed. 

He made a stirring little speech at the very end, something to cement the dedication of their allies, who had not yet been placated by the developments that had occurred in the peace talks. 

_Tomorrow, we stand for every man, woman, and child in all Thedas, and we reach to the heavens to seal the Breach. Thedas will not forget your aid in closing this dark chapter of her history, and the Inquisition will turn its attention to closing another breach that has caused so much anguish for so many of you. We will bridge the gap between the mages and the Templars, and pioneer a lasting peace, the greatest gift that the Inquisition could hope to give to Thedas._

He thanked them all for their aid, and turned towards his advisors, the smile that tugged the corners of his mouth not quite reaching his eyes. 

Now, here, standing in the War Room, the same taciturn shell coated him, making him unknowable to Dorian, and to the rest of the people who stood in the room.

“Thank you all,” he began, “for all of your personal contributions to our efforts. I understand that we each have very different reasons for wanting to see the Breach sealed, but we are all united by that common purpose. You have each been instrumental in guiding the Inquisition to this point, and I could not have asked for a finer – if not divergent – collection of allies.”

They all smiled at him, the knowing warmth emanating from each of them, in their own way. The Herald’s words seemed less like an inspirational speech, and more like a final goodbye, and the members of the Inner Circle and his Advisors recognized this and responded in kind.

“Regardless of what may happen tomorrow, after the Breach is sealed, the Inquisition must carry on. This Elder One cannot remain in the shadows for much longer – we need to drag him out into the light, expose what he has done, and hold him accountable, for the Conclave, the Venatori, and the Red Templars. Talks between the mages and the Templars must continue – we must see that the Divine’s final attempt at peace is carried through to its conclusion.” 

He stopped for a moment, his mouth rounded, his eyes searching intently for the words his mind couldn’t seem to generate. The group was patient and attentive.

“If I should…” he paused momentarily, unable to enunciate the thought. “The Inquisition must carry on,” he repeated, “no matter what may happen. You have each given your blood to this cause. It is unfair of me to ask you for any more, but I know that we can truly change Thedas for the better. With or without me.”

He was finished. He looked to the group, catching each eye individually, a silent thank you for their continued service, a final farewell to this group upon whom he had relied.

They all responded in turn – Vivienne curtsying delicately in respect towards the Herald. Blackwall moved his right fist over his heart and bowed with military precision. Bull, arms crossed over his bulky chest, nodded his head solemnly. Sera tilted her head to the side and smiled. Cassandra stared intently, her usual scowl replaced by empathy – two people who understood what it meant to give their lives in service. 

His eyes caught Dorian’s, and he paused for just a second longer. The corners of his eyelids wavered, the Herald forcibly maintaining his composition, his mouth pulled into a wan smile. Dorian’s heart screamed inside his chest. He clenched his jaw so that no other might hear the sound.

“Alright, then. You might as well get some rest.” Everyone stood up, silently, moving towards the door, no one having anything to add that might elevate the mood, or at the very least, make things less dour. The Herald’s hand reached out to stop Josephine before she left. He whispered something into her ear, and pulled a stack of envelopes out of his robes. Dorian pieced it all together – _his final goodbyes, should he fail_ – and he swallowed hard, suppressing the emotions that threatened to overtake him. Josephine took the letters under one arm, and reached the other over the Herald’s shoulder, pulling him into a hug. The Herald’s arms wrapped around her waist, and he dipped his head over her shoulder. He murmured something else to her, and held on for a moment longer before letting her go. She wiped at her face, bowed her head, and made for the door.

The Herald caught Leliana’s eye, and opened his mouth. “Leliana,” his voice fought the quaver, “I wanted to have a moment tonight, just by myself, if that would be alright. I’m not trying to escape, I promise, but I would like some privacy. I’ll just be up in the mountains, staring at the Breach, pondering my own mortality. I figured I’d let you know, since you’d find out anyway, and I don’t need a search party interrupting my solitude.”

_Ah, using humor to cope with your problems. Wouldn’t know anything about that._

“Of course. I shall send word to my agents. They will give you your space.” Her voice was laden with understanding. How many friends had she seen die?

The room was almost empty, save for the Herald, Leliana, Cullen, Cole, and Dorian, whose feet had apparently been frozen to the floor. He looked down to make sure that wasn’t the case, and began to move towards the door, when he caught the Herald’s eyes.

They narrowed at Dorian, before winking at him. His lips moved, but no words came out. Dorian tried to piece together what the Herald was trying to mouth at him.

_Come with me._

He turned and left the room. Dorian wasn’t sure that he’d seen it correctly; he wasn’t skilled at reading lips. _Does the Herald want my company?_

“Yes!” Cole said sunnily, his tone a contrast to the black mood that had permeated the room but moments before. Dorian turned to look at the spirit, his eyes wide with shock. The overlarge hat he never took off obscured his face, but surely, Cole could see the grimace that had formed below Dorian’s mustache.

“Must you always do that?” Dorian asked, incredulously.

“You wanted to know,” Cole said, his voice dreamy and distant as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Cole. So much. 
> 
> And this Chapter, I actually have sympathy for Trevelyan for once! Poor dude.
> 
> And what's going on with that Mark, hmmm? We'll see!
> 
> Thanks again for the lovely comments and kudos!


	9. The Mountains Over Haven

Dorian slid out the front gate of Haven, as the light of the dying day turned the mountains into mounds of gold, a stark contrast to the toxic green of the Breach. He looked out over the peaks, wondering to where Trevelyan might have disappeared. He thought back to minutes earlier, Trevelyan’s glance, the narrowing of his eyes, the wink. He sincerely hoped that he wasn’t misinterpreting the Herald’s gesture – or more importantly, that Cole hadn’t guided him in the wrong direction. Dorian wondered what the Herald would want his company for this evening – a shoulder to cry on? An ally with whom to commiserate? A warm body to hold, in case he’d never have the chance again?

His mind wandered for a moment to thoughts of the Herald, the body underneath the chain mail and the robes, the hands that simultaneously struck down the enemies of the Inquisition and promised salvation to all peoples of Thedas - whether or not they believed him to be worthy of his title.

“He went that way, Vint.” 

Dorian glanced over his shoulder, searching for the owner of the gruff voice. The Iron Bull. He wondered if his Horror spell would inspire any fear in the overgrown Qunari warrior. 

“To whom exactly are you referring?” Dorian asked, not eager to be found out so easily. 

“You’re no good at playing dumb. The Herald. Trevelyan.” Bull stated, with the slightest hint of playfulness coursing through the words. _Fasta Vaas_ , thought Dorian, _that Ben-Hasraath bastard_. “I’m not blind. I’ve still got one good eye.” One eye that widened at Dorian to accentuate Bull’s point.

_No point in hiding it now_. “Thank you for pointing me in the right direction,” Dorian said with a slight bow. He thought about making a snide remark back, to salvage some of his pride. _You’ll want to head in that direction. Keep going until you find a bath_. But the Bull had done him a favor. No point in being unnecessarily sharp with him now.

_I’ll just save that one for a later date_ , he thought, as he Fade Stepped into a cloud of shimmering dust. 

Bull had been pointing past the Penitent’s Crossing. Dorian slid, a blur of air and ice, somewhere between this plane of existence and the next, until he had successfully made it past the small bridge and towards another, which had been destroyed. Dorian wondered why no one had bothered fixing it, and then he glanced up and realized why that was a foolish question.

At this point, Dorian wasn’t sure where he was supposed to be going. He slowed down on the path, nestled between two separate peaks. The path that the Inquisition would take tomorrow, in their final assault on the Breach. The sun was setting fast, and night would make finding his way anywhere significantly more difficult. He looked around, for some sign. _Trevelyan, where have you gone?_

“I wondered if you’d follow me.” Trevelyan called from across the icy lake. “I wasn’t sure if a wink would be obvious enough.”

Dorian turned and couldn’t help but smile when he saw the Trevelyan’s face. “Oh, really? Do you think me so dense, that I wouldn’t be able to fathom what you meant by winking and mouthing words at me while Leliana’s back was turned?”

“So Cole said something?” The Herald’s little chuckle danced across the frozen water.

“Very well, you found me out. But I’ll have you know that I _had_ figured it out. Cole just confirmed my suspicions. Not that I asked him to, mind you.” Dorian huffed.

Trevelyan laughed. “That’s Cole, alright. Remind me to thank him.”

“For what?”

“Making sure you knew I wanted you here.”

Dorian’s heart fluttered, just a little bit. He couldn’t help but smile at Trevelyan. For a moment, he looked away, breaking his intent focus on Trevelyan’s face, and he could see the bigger picture. The last rays of sun coming from the west danced somberly over the Frostbacks, reflecting off of the snow and ice. Sure, the Breach hung in the sky, but the light of dusk would not be outshone. His gaze drifted up, across the lake, to the Herald, awash in the glow, gilded like a statute cast from purest gold. The wind tugged gently at his hair, and his leather robes billowed out behind him. 

“So what, pray tell, did you drag me all the way out here for? And without any good wine?”

“I’m surprised you think anything that’s not from a Tevinter vineyard is good.” 

“I said good, not great, mind you.” 

He could hear the Herald’s chuckle glide over the ice. “Just follow me.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically enough that Trevelyan would be able to identify the motion from several yards away, but he dutifully began to stroll across the frozen lake. Well, it wasn’t a stroll exactly. Falling on his ass wouldn’t necessarily _ruin_ his allure, but it certainly wouldn’t help.

As Dorian made his way to the other bank, Trevelyan’s eyes narrowed and his lips curled. “And do keep up,” as he dissipated into a Fade Step.

_Kaffas_. Dorian exploded after him, between trees, up the side of the mountain. Even with the wind rushing loudly past him, he could still hear the Herald’s laughter. He’d noticed it before, during moments in the heat of battle, but here, without the imminent threat of possible death, it was on full display: the Herald was reveling in his magic. There was a certain abandon in the way he flew toward the summit. Dorian could only assume, after a life in one of those horrific southern Circles, these past few months may have been the very first times that Trevelyan could enjoy his gifts outside the walls of a prison manned by a militia of Templars. 

The Herald leapt up rocks, steaks of white and blue trailing behind him. Dorian followed, bounding behind, hoping that they were almost at their destination. They were nearing the peak, and the Herald phased back into reality, solid and sturdy. Dorian whirred himself back, expertly exiting his Fade Step with a few graceful footfalls toward Trevelyan. 

“So, what exactly are we supposed to be doing here?” Dorian asked. He noticed the roaring fire, and two logs, clean, without a hint of snow on them. He thought back to their conversation, before they had been so rudely interrupted by the arrival of the Templars. They hadn’t had a chance to stow away in a secluded corner of Haven and lose themselves in each other’s bodies – could that be why the Herald brought them out here?

_Is he under the impression that I’d roll around in the newly fallen snow?_

“I figured, since tomorrow promises to be eventful, I might as well enjoy what little time I may have left.” The Herald’s face was wry. Hard to believe this was the same man laughing a few moments earlier, a whirl of frost running at breakneck speed like some sort of giddy child. But then again, the Herald’s tempestuous emotions were surely justifiable, in light of present circumstances.

“Oh? I’m flattered. But I wonder: why I was your first choice for companionship this evening?” Dorian raised an eyebrow in feigned incredulity, waiting for the Herald’s reply. Dorian was, after all, excellent company.

“Playing coy? I’d never expect you to question being picked first. I would have guessed you’d be thinking, ‘Of course! I’m _excellent_ company.’”

“Think you’ve got me all figured out, do you?” The question was laced with the right amount of humor, but truly, Dorian was a little afraid that the Herald was able to see him a little too clearly. _Another gift of the Mark? Flawless insight?_

“There’s much more to you than meets the eye. The lone Tevinter reformer, come to aid the Inquisition fight a cult of madmen and seal the Breach in the sky? You’ve got _layers_.” 

“All the better to unfurl.”

It was all a little game. Who would submit first? Whose ability to banter would fail, who would give in? 

He made his way to one of the logs and sat himself down. It wasn’t a winged armchair upholstered in plush velvet, but it would suffice for a night like tonight. He stared up into the cold, green light of the Breach, never having been this close to it before. The Fade always felt so warm and inviting to him, like the embrace of an old friend. But the Breach was a different beast, a gaping maw as inviting as a howling blizzard. Dorian pulled his robes tighter around his body subconsciously. 

“You should have seen it before we managed to stabilize it. I could have sworn it was roaring at me. Or maybe it was its reaction to the Mark that made it seem so… alive. It was hard to do much thinking, the way the Mark felt.”

“How did it feel?” Dorian asked, genuinely curious. Whatever the Mark was, it was obviously magical in nature, even if the Maker himself had placed it on the Herald’s hand. 

“Have you ever burned yourself so badly, it almost loops back around and doesn’t hurt at all? Imagine that slowly spreading out from your palm, radiating out, further and further with each passing minute. The Mark stopped growing when the Breach stopped growing, thankfully.”

“And now?”

“Now? It tingles from time to time. It still feels strange when I close a rift.” Trevelyan grasped his left hand with his right, massaging his palm.

“How so?”

“It’s like the Mark and the rift are pulling each other. Like the Mark is trying to escape from my hand and return to the Fade. Like it never was supposed to be here at all.” He looked down. The Mark flickered, as if to acknowledge his gaze. “I doubt it really ever was.”

_So much for light banter. Come on Dorian, change direction. The last thing he needs is a night of grim reflection._

“So, you managed to stop the Breach from growing last time. Thinking you’ll fare a little better at outright closing it this time around?”

_Excellent work, Pavus._

“I suppose we’ll see. You know, this can only end in one of four ways,” the Herald stated, as if it were fact. Dorian watched intently, electing to stay silent, lest his mouth drag this conversation in an even more depressing direction. It’s not often men are forced to confront their fate, and the Herald had the utmost pleasure of his own destiny looming quite literally overhead. 

“I could fail and die, in which case I’d be a tragic accident, nothing more than a footnote in history. I could fail and live, which would make me a tragic accident that they could continue to throw at the problem. I could succeed and die, and they would call me a martyr, and maybe I could get a song or two composed in my posthumous honor. Or, and this is the least likely of all, I could succeed and survive, and maybe - just maybe - they would call me a hero. Which only means that I will probably die a much more gruesome death at a later date.”

“At least you have something to look forward to,” Dorian quipped, with the requisite amount of levity in his voice. “If you make it out alive, you’ll get a celebration out of the whole deal. Really makes up for that whole, ‘Chosen by the Bride of the Maker to save the innocents of Thedas’ crown that’s been foisted upon your head.”

Trevelyan chuckled under his breath. “At least someone understands.” He paused and collected himself. “I didn’t want this. At least, I would not have chosen myself for it. It’s odd, having people look at your like a living, breathing statue of Andraste. Or Maferath, depending on who’s behind the gaze.”

“You’ve certainly made the best out of a bad situation. Uniting the warring mages and Templars underneath a common banner to seal the Breach that threatens us all? Not even Varric would write something that far-fetched.”

“What part of this has been believable? The part where I fell out of the Fade? The part where Andraste was standing behind me while I fell out? The mark on my hand? This Elder One? I would pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, but that never works in my dreams.” The Herald’s eyes looked up to catch Dorian’s for a moment, the corners of his eyes crinkling kindly at the absurdity of the situation. He turned towards the fires and stoked the flame with a flick of his hand. “I guess all I can do is keep moving towards the end of the story. Hopefully I make it past the climax.” The Herald’s eyes flickered back up towards Dorian for an instant, the flames reflected in his eyes. Or maybe those flames were something else. _More innuendo?_ Dorian stilled himself. The conversation seemed too serious for that.

Dorian pursed his lips and closed his eyes. “If it’s any consolation, which it should be, I don’t believe the tale ends at the closure of the Breach. We still have the Venatori and the Red Templars to deal with, not to mention the plot to assassinate Celene and the Demon Army.”

“And this Elder One. Whatever he might be.” The Herald sucked the air in a hiss between his teeth. He stared up at the Breach for a few moments, the crackling of the flames and the soft song of the wind filling the gap between the two mages. “I wonder how he connects all these disparate threads? It hardly seems like the work of a mere man – there’s a much greater power at play here.”

“If it’s one of my countrymen, I can guarantee you that greater power is exactly what they are after.” Dorian offered. His mind had perpetually returned to what purpose this Elder One might have, if he was in fact some emboldened Tevinter Magister. Dorian kept reminding himself that Tevinter had no allies. The disparate nations of Thedas may not agree on much, but they certainly agreed that a return to Imperium rule ought to be prevented at all costs. 

The Inquisitor murmured approval from deep in his lungs. His eyes were transfixed on the sky. Dorian took the opportunity to join him in his gaze.

The sky in Haven was littered with stars, even with the Breach obstructing the view. Dorian traced the constellations in the back of his mind, subconsciously. Surely, many southerners would believe that a Tevinter education started and ended with Blood Magic, but as the son of a Magister, he’d been required to learn more than how to crush his opponents with the slightest flick of a staff. He’d been trained in Logic and Rhetoric, History and Art. At least, when he wasn’t causing enough controversy within the walls of whatever Circle his parents had managed to install him in before he was summarily kicked out and sent straight to another. Certainly, magical education was the primary focus of his studies when he came of age, largely due to his proficiency and flair for the magical arts, but he had many interests, and relished the opportunity to study other fields of knowledge. You never knew what valuable information you could uncover in the depths of a tome on the botanical sciences, and how well that information could translate to the practical application of magic. 

He smiled at the memory of the time he managed to sweeten a vial of a Felandaris-based healing potion. He’d be forever grateful to the author of 'Lesser-Known Herbes and Plantes of the Anderfels, Vol. II' for making that vile brew at least somewhat palatable. 

“You know,” Trevelyan started, breaking Dorian away from his thoughts. “It occurs to me that I’ve hardly thought about the future of the Inquisition outside of our immediate problems – the mages, the Templars, the Elder One. What becomes of all of this after we’ve resolved all of those issues?”

“Ah, you mean after you’ve sealed the Breach and solved ‘The Mystery of the Dead Divine’?” Dorian hoped the Herald didn’t find the joke too flippant. A warm chuckle confirmed that, no, he did not.

“I suppose, especially if all the strings lead back to this Elder One. Beyond all of that – what happens if we actually save the day?”

“We’re operating under the assumption that a sizable enough portion of the Inquisition lasts long enough to effect any change in the real world, yes?”

“And that we haven’t managed to completely alienate all potential allies in the process, yes.” 

“Well, either one of two things: The Inquisition develops into an extra-national power that changes the political landscape of Thedas. Naturally, everyone will try to take credit, including the newly reformed Chantry, who will anoint you on the spot and claim that you’ve always had their support.” Dorian took a deep breath, to get through his next sentence, “Or, they maintain their stance that we are all a band of heretical lunatics, who through some fluke, managed to succeed against impossible odds, and whatever peace the Inquisition manages to broker, the newly reformed Chantry will ignore, reinstate the Templar Order, and throw your lot back in the Circles.”

Trevelyan scrunched his nose at the suggestion. “All the more reason for me to live, then. “ He said, his tone bordering on flippant. “They aren’t sending us back to the Circles. Not like it was before. Over my green, glowing hand.” 

“Then may I ask why you neglected to disband the Templar Order at Therinfal Redoubt?” Dorian asked, his tone measured and deliberate, to avoid giving the Herald the impression that he thought the idea of a reinvigorated Templar Order was anything short of idiotic.

“The reality is that the Templars are needed, at least in some respect, to provide a check to mages. The people of southern Thedas would never accept an arrangement that gave mages free reign. Nor should we have completely free reign – what happens when a mage, even a well-meaning one, becomes an abomination? The Templars are uniquely qualified to handle that threat. That doesn’t mean I think they should be the jailors of the mages, an armored guard inside every room, to save us from ourselves. There has to be a middle ground, where mages are given control over their own lives, make their own decisions, and the Templars can provide service and security, maybe live up to their self-declared title of ‘protectors of the innocent’.” 

Dorian paused to consider this. He wondered if the Herald’s perspective was so colored by his upbringing in the South; that even the staunchest of the rebels didn’t see some inherent value in having Templars around, even in a diminished capacity. Some sort of trick of the mind, the mages having affection and sympathy for their keepers. 

“Besides,” the Herald continued, “if your displeasure with Tevinter politics and corruption is any indication, mages having completely free reign isn’t all us southern mages might think it is.” 

“In spite of the blood sacrifices and constant power grabs, I would argue that the freedom to walk out one’s door without being charged with apostasy and hanged in the public square is certainly something to consider.” Dorian quipped. He could never argue that the system in Tevinter was not broken – it was, possibly beyond repair. That didn’t mean, however, that everything about the Imperium was bad, per se. Although, thinking back to their prior conversation about slavery, Dorian thought better than to press the issue further with the Herald.

“I can see your point of view. It’s easy to frame things in black and white, to see only good or only bad. Unfortunately for us, the world only operates in shades of grey.” The Herald seemed exasperated. The weight of the world had slipped back onto his shoulders. _I’m sure this isn’t what he’d wanted when he invited you along_. Dorian regretted having taken the conversation in this direction, instead of heading straight for the innuendo. _Rolling around naked in the snow is surely preferable to this._

“You’re right about that.” Dorian responded. He didn’t know what else he could contribute. The Herald reclined against the log, and continued his steadfast gaze towards the Breach. He let out a long sigh, pushing the air out of his lungs slowly.

“You know, back in the Circle, before all this happened,” Trevelyan waved his hand at the air above his head, “I had, I guess you could call it a fling, but it was more a torturous secret romance, with a Templar in my Circle. I would say that maybe that’s the reason why I have some sort of lingering affection for the Order, but that would be a lie. Even before things broke off between us – or should I say, were broken off for us – I had already become bitter and resentful. But what else could I have had, in the Circle? Even a fleeting romance was better than none at all.” The end of his sentence trailed off, carried by the wind into the Breach. The look in his eyes was somewhere between forlorn and annoyed. 

Dorian had heard about the barbaric conditions in the Circle, including the so-called ban on intimate relations, which was something near unfathomable to Dorian. Even in the Imperium, with all its rules and taboos, as long as one kept his or her dalliances out of the eyes of the public, then no one was too bothered to pry. Unless they were looking for a way to blackmail you, but luckily, Dorian had been cast out long before anyone needed a reason to hold something over his head. The silence between the two had gone on for too long, and Dorian needed to say something to break it. “So, a forbidden affair between a mage and a Templar, confined to the walls of the Circles.” _Maker, is Varric writing your dialogue?_ “I hate to pry,” Dorian lied, “but that begs the question: What exactly happened?”

Trevelyan chortled, “I’m sure.” His voice was steeped in snark. Dorian was glad Gabriel didn’t begrudge him his curiosity. His face softened. What was that look in his eye? Wistful? With a hint of regret? “It started like most affairs within the Circle, at least those I was privy to. Together, for long periods of time, you find yourself alone, you get to talking, and then to flirting, and the next thing you know, you’re out of your smallclothes, uttering blasphemies, praying that the door remains shut.”

That last part, Dorian could relate to. Stealing away for a private moment, praying no one would notice your absence and come looking. He’d only been caught a few times, thank the Maker. More precisely, thank himself for eventually learning how to magic doors to prevent them from being unlocked from anywhere but the inside. 

“I could pretend it started innocently, but that wasn’t the case. I was young and overeager. But the more we stole away together, grabbing whatever moment of pleasure we could, the more the feelings built up.”

And Dorian could relate to that part, too. He could repeat the same mantra, over and over again, that anything between men was just pleasure, nothing more, but he knew. _I’ve had a few reminders, as of late_. He pulled his cloak tighter against himself.

“At some point, a few months into… whatever it was, I tried broaching the topic, to see if he felt the same way, or really, anything at all. I may have well been the Templar, because that one sentence sucked out whatever magic was between us. He kept talking about his duties, and how important they were to him. How he was just a poor Marcher boy who aspired to something more, and this could never be anything but stolen moments in dark closets.” The Herald exhaled, his breath lost on the breeze.

“We met less frequently after that. I tempered my expectations but even still, the pangs struck my heartstrings and made it difficult to enjoy what I had in the moment. I grew bitter – I was young and impatient and lustful and heartbroken. Just a swell of raw, untamed emotion, pushing at him like spell he could too easily negate. Templars, right?” His eyelids drooped jokingly, as if to ask Dorian for a modicum of understanding. Dorian’s face was taut, but sympathetic. He didn’t want to reveal any of his own past heartbreaks – not quite yet.

“Eventually, the dam he erected couldn’t hold me back, and I rushed through, demanded something, anything from him. I didn’t want to hear that he couldn’t give it – because really, what was I expecting? Holding hands in the courtyard, for all the Circle to see?” He practically spat the last line, incredulous at his own youthful naïveté. He sighed, rolled his eyes at nothing, and shook his head lightly. “Anyway, the next day, I was informed that he had confessed everything to his superiors, and was being immediately transferred to another Circle. I was punished, forced to clean the Mess Hall every day for a month, but I should have gotten much worse. If it weren’t for my family’s name, and the fact that their generosity helped keep the Chantry’s coffers flush with gold, I probably would have. And that’s the story.” He turned his eyes toward Dorian, and smirked. “Has your curiosity been sated?”

Dorian was surprised at Trevelyan’s honesty and earnestness. Normally, Dorian found that type of sincerity almost nauseating. In a land of double-dealing Magisters, he was taught to keep his feelings in check, to be impenetrable to anyone looking from the outside in, to give a little, but never too much. While he had shrugged off most of those lessons, he’d built up humor as his armor, to keep everything above the surface and away from the dark depths of actual emotion. But Trevelyan’s earnestness was dry, peppered with realism and clarity honed by retrospection, which Dorian could appreciate. 

“I believe that it has. Thank you sharing that story with me. The idea of life in a Circle is still beyond my comprehension, but that was certainly an illuminating tale.”

“Which part? The one where I was a lovesick teenager, or the part where my pants were around my ankles, getting fucked in a broom closet?” There was an edge to Gabriel’s voice, crackling like the fire that rested between them. Dorian was tempted to go for the low-hanging fruit, but after a story like this, it hardly seemed appropriate.

“The latter.” Dorian was never appropriate.

Gabriel smiled wickedly through the flames. He cast another glance at the night sky, illuminated by the Breach. His face dropped. “I wonder what true freedom would be like. I’ve always been bound: at first to my family’s name, and then by the Circle, and now, to the title. _The Herald of Andraste_. What is that even supposed to be?” He asked the air, incredulity rising in his voice. “At least Andraste was guided by the Maker. If there’s a book on how to properly assume the mantle of ‘Religious Icon,’ I haven’t found it in the library at Haven.”

“Really? I’m surprised you couldn’t find a copy amongst all of those volumes full of Chantry rhetoric. If not, I’m sure someone has an opinion.” 

“Oh, _everyone_ has an opinion.” The Herald laughed wearily. “Everything that’s happened since the Conclave, everything I’ve done, is either the divine will of the Maker, or the deranged attempts of a heretic eager to seize power and crush the established order. I wish I had half the delusions of grandeur they’ve attributed to me. It would make for a better story than the reality.”

“Which would be?”

“That I’m tripping over myself in an attempt to set things right.”

“If it’s any consolation, you’ve been tripping as gracefully as possible.”

Trevelyan laughed, a low sound coming from the back of his throat, as if he didn’t believe Dorian. He picked himself up off the ground. _Don’t be leaving just yet_ , thought Dorian. _We were just getting to the good part_. The Herald picked up his bag, and made his way over to Dorian. From inside, he pulled out a large bottle of red wine.

"Oh, so you've been holding out on me all this time?" Dorian asked, playful accusation coloring his speech.

“Would you care to share? I managed to snake this from the Tavern, but didn’t have enough time to pilfer the appropriate stemware.”

Dorian smiled. “You Marchers and your sophisticated ways. Back home, they talk about you like you’re as refined as Avvar.” 

“I hope I haven’t done too much to turn your expectations on their head.”

“No worry of that, rest assured.”

The Herald smiled down at him. The light flickered against half of his face, highlighting the prominence of his cheekbones, the strength of his jawline, the sophisticated slope of his nose. He sat down to the left of Dorian, lazing against the same log, with only inches between them. He uncorked the bottle easily enough, and passed it to Dorian.

“You take the first sip.”

“Of course I do.” It was a serviceable wine. Much like every wine in the South. He may prefer Tevinter vintages, but Dorian wasn’t above appreciating what the Orlesians had to offer. It was a bit drier than he’d care for, but he invited the warmth it brought to his chest. 

They passed the bottle back and forth in silence, staring up at the Breach. The Herald’s gaze was fixed upon it, his face inscrutable. He’d said so much, about his past, about the future, his heartaches, his fears. His eyes were deep and wide, filled to their depths with errant worries, hopes, and nightmares. They were framed so perfectly by those overly stern eyebrows that seemed so out-of-character for a man who was, in fact, quite flippant. Then again, the Herald was the one who strong-armed his advisors into pursuing both the mages and the Templars against their better judgment. And he was also the man who managed to quell the argument between the groups by reminding both sides of their place in the world. They may not have been the most honorable methods, and neither was the type of action you’d expect from some sort of blessed icon. It was nearly blasphemous. _An amalgamation of contradictions_. Obviously, this was a point of admiration for Dorian. Bucking the expectations of the people and carving your own path? Staying true to himself in spite of the expectations being forced upon him? Dorian found it oddly seductive.

Dorian caught Trevelyan looking over at him from the corner of his eye. Which means that Trevelyan had likely seen Dorian’s stolen glance. He wasn’t sure if the blush in his cheeks should be attributed to the wine in his belly or the boyish flutter in his heart. He shifted against the log, and in his attempt to settle himself, found his hand on top of Trevelyan’s. 

“My apologies,” Dorian uttered as he recoiled instinctively. Suggestive flirtation in the shadows of Haven is acceptable, but handholding is certainly a step too far. Trevelyan’s head turned to greet Dorian’s sheepish expression. Was he smiling? _Maker, that smile is how he gets away with everything_ , Dorian thought. Before he could react, Trevelyan gingerly reached out and grabbed Dorian’s hand in his own, and interlocked their fingers. His eyes looked at Dorian, every so slightly crinkled at the edges, warmer than the fire burning before them.

“I don’t mind if you don’t mind.” 

Dorian closed his mouth before the Herald had a chance to see his expression. Rearranging his features, he turned his face towards the fire, his eyes towards the Herald, and curled his fingers over the Herald’s knuckles. He felt the Herald’s smile as his lips pulled back to reveal his teeth. 

_Maker, he’s as unassuming as a nug and as deadly as a dragon._

They sat there for a while, hand-in-hand, passing the remains of the bottle back and forth, returning their gaze to the Breach. It was as much a focal point of the evening as the conversation, or the warmth of their joined hands. Dorian wasn’t sure what any of this was. Companionship, maybe? Romance? A momentary diversion from the enormous green hole of destiny in the sky? Whatever it was, Dorian was enjoying it more than he ought to be. _Blame it on the wine_ , he thought. 

Trevelyan’s hand unclasped from his own. The rush of cold on Dorian’s palm was sobering.

Trevelyan stood up. “We should be getting back. All things considered,” cocking his head towards the hole in the sky, “I do have an important day ahead of me tomorrow. Plus, the wine is starting to hit me, and I can’t imagine trying to seal the Breach with a hangover.”

_This Breach. Ruining everything_ , Dorian thought.

_Well, not everything_ , a competing voice chimed in. 

_Don’t get optimistic_ , Dorian grumbled. 

Dorian looked up at the Herald, whose hand was outstretched. He hadn’t had enough wine to really need a hand up, but after the prior abandonment, he was loath to deny another opportunity for physical contact. His hand met Trevelyan’s, and he picked himself up in a fluid, graceful motion. 

He was standing near Trevelyan, but suddenly, it didn’t feel close enough. His eyes rested somewhere on Trevelyan’s chest. He suddenly wasn’t sure what was keeping him from looking up into Trevelyan’s eyes. He pinpointed the emotion with surprising alacrity – it was fear. Fear that tomorrow would come and go, and Trevelyan would go with it. Fear that this moment would never have the chance to repeat itself. _Chin up, Pavus. It’s not like any of this should catch you surprised._

Dorian picked his head up. Trevelyan’s face was locked into a wan smile, the corners of his mouth pulled up and down at all once, his eyes crinkling with warmth, but it was just embers. “Thank you. For listening to me prattle on.” 

Dorian smiled as warmly as he could, in spite of the shadows creeping into the edges of this perfect picture. “Of course. For what it’s worth, I enjoyed the prattlng.” Dorian replied. Trevelyan smiled wider, and dropped his head down. He chuckled, like he was pondering something very amusing. 

“What has you so amused, pray tell?”

Trevelyan moved closer in one purposeful step. One wrong move, and he’d be on Dorian’s toes. The Herald of Andraste, inches from his face, his breath deep and measured, as his glance shifted upwards to meet Dorian’s own. The last time they’d been this close…

“This may be inappropriate, but in all likelihood, I’m going to die tomorrow, so…” The words trailed off as their faces moved closer.

Their lips pressed together. Reserved, at first, just to test the waters. Dorian realized that the Herald was waiting on him to either deepen the kiss or to push him away. Dorian thought, for the briefest moment, what this would mean. Standing on the side of a mountain in the blasted ass-end of Thedas, lips pressed against the closest thing to a religious icon Thedas had seen in hundreds of years. The appropriate thing would be to deny the attraction, to politely reject this chiseled, charming man, and, as Vivienne had suggested, let him find someone more suitable whom he could romance on mountainsides without fear of dismantling the credibility of the Inquisition.

Dorian was never appropriate. 

Dorian bit down ever so lightly on the Herald’s bottom lip, and hung on for just a moment too long, before breaking the kiss. Both of their eyes opened, and they looked at each other intently. Their breath mixed in the cool air of the night, their bodies close, but not yet entwined. Dorian knew all the steps to this dance. The right words, the oldest form of magic humans ever knew, and the Herald would be his: nude, panting, pleading for release. Something charming and inviting, but cool, distant. _Don’t play all your cards yet, Pavus._

The words came out quiet and tender. “You won’t die. You’re the hero, after all.” 

_KAFFAS!_ He cursed his traitorous tongue. It hardly deserved the reward it received when Trevelyan’s mouth met his again, and their tongues found their way to each other. _The price for treason is death_ , thought Dorian, _so consider yourself lucky that you are a valuable tool, and I don’t cut you out right now_. A light moan escaped Trevelyan’s lips, so light, in fact, that Dorian was sure he wouldn’t have heard it had the wind not been blowing in just the right direction. It caught itself in the gears of Dorian’s mind, and stopped them from turning, allowing Dorian to lose himself.

Everything melted away into that swirl of passion. The mountain, Haven, the Breach, all of it vanished. Dorian relished this moment, where everything else becomes muddled and surreal and the only things to cling to are the lips pressed against yours, the hands that traveled, fingers that locked together, chests and hips fighting against each other for just a bit more closeness. Trevelyan’s technique was delicate yet forceful, but there was a slight quaver behind all of it that Dorian couldn’t help but notice. Maybe it was the wine, Dorian thought, or maybe it’s a man facing down his own mortality, realizing that this could very well be the final, fleeting chance for affection. Who was Dorian to deny him that? _Oh, who are you kidding?_ His mind had roused. _As if you were Andraste herself, sacrificing yourself for the benefit of mankind, for the love of the Maker! You’re not that selfless._

Dorian’s eyes crept open, to steal a glance at the face of his momentary paramour. He could have sworn that the Herald’s eyes had been open, if only for a second, as if to confirm that what was happening was real, tiny slits framed by ebony lashes, the green light of the Breach glinting off the deeper, forest hues of the Herald’s irises. 

The kissing had ebbed and flowed, like magic drawn from the Fade, building into a crescendo and relaxing again, languid, fluid. The Herald’s hand rested delicately on Dorian’s right cheek, his thumb following the curve of Dorian’s cheekbone, and the other hand found its repose in the small of Dorian’s back, pulling him a close as their bodies could possibly be. It hardly seemed close enough. Dorian’s hand wound its way through the Herald’s hair, and the other gently worked its way from the Herald’s broad shoulders to his side. Flames rose inside of Dorian, and he quietly prayed that this moment would last forever; that Alexius’ pendant would suddenly explode and freeze time around them, so that they might enjoy this small slice of perfection, forever. 

The Herald slowed the pace of his lips to a near standstill, and pulled away. Dorian obliged, even if he was greedy for more. Dorian opened his eyes and found Trevelyan looking at him dreamily. The Herald’s mouth was drawn into a tender smile, as he buried his face into Dorian’s neck. The heat of the Herald’s breath against Dorian’s collarbone, the light kisses planted in the crook of his neck. Dorian’s lips stung, wet and raw and unoccupied, against the cool mountain wind, his eyes flickered closed in pleasure as the Herald’s lips moved more fiercely. A moan escaped his lips, short and staccato. It was all his lungs could muster. 

He felt Trevelyan’s lips, pressed against the side of his neck, curl into a toothy smile. Trevelyan pulled away, catching Dorian’s eye, looking all too proud of himself.

“I believe I win again.” Gabriel muttered, his head bowing back down, teeth nibbling gently at Dorian’s neck, climbing their way up to Dorian’s ear. 

Ass. “Oh, you think so, do you? I heard a moan escape your lips before mine. I believe this round is mine.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gabriel said, playfully wicked, pulling his face back to gaze upon Dorian’s. “For all your boasting, I do have to admit: you are quite beautiful. I’ve been waiting patiently for a moment to steal a kiss.”

“I hope the wait was worth it.”

“It was, and then some.” The Herald smiled, before pulling Dorian in for another kiss, heavy and slow, their lips moving in the practiced unison of lovers that had known each other’s technique for years.

Gabriel pried his lips apart from Dorian’s. “We really should get back. It’s late, and the cold is becoming unbearable.”

Dorian sighed at the finality in the Herald’s tone. “Alright.” He pushed his lips towards Trevelyan’s once more, for a final peck. The Herald caught Dorian’s lips, and held on for a moment longer.

“Come on.” Trevelyan magically doused the flames, and reached out for Dorian’s hand. 

They made their way down the mountain together, in relative silence, save for momentary peals of laughter that escaped both their lips, reveling in their own giddiness, the rest of the world unable to penetrate the bubble that encapsulated the pair. Dorian couldn’t believe any of this was truly happening. _Maybe we failed, and the Breach has already swallowed Thedas alive._

As they approached the walls of Haven, Dorian pulled his hand away from Trevelyan’s. Gabriel looked at him, his eyes understanding, but slightly hurt.

They made their way through the gate. The soldier standing guard nodded at them as they passed by, and began to walk up the steps to Haven proper. Their march stopped at the top of the steps, as they turned toward each other.

“Well, I suppose that this is where we part for the evening.” Dorian said.

Gabriel stepped closer. His arms wrapped around Dorian’s waist, and he pulled him closer. The temperature of the air around them rose in an instant. Dorian’s mind reeled at their proximity, catching the gasp in his throat before it escaped his mouth and reached Trevelyan’s ears. _Does he have no sense at all?_ Sure, Haven was quiet, the night having fallen, but an errant few still populated the public spaces – what would they think if they stumbled upon this scene?

“It doesn’t have to be,” Gabriel murmured breathily. “Come back to my cabin.”

Dorian’s heart skipped a beat. Was he suggesting...? His mind raced frantically. _You want this. I don’t want to destroy the Inquisition. The Herald needs his rest. What will they say? What if he can’t close the Breach, and everyone’s eyes turn to me? Maker, he’s gorgeous._

“As much as I would enjoy that, I certainly wouldn’t want to invite any gossip, lest the nobility slander your good name. The Herald and a Tevinter! Blasphemous.”

“The nobility can go fuck themselves. I’m already closing the Breach to make sure their asses stay comfortably planted exactly where they are,” the Herald growled playfully. “I don’t care about what anyone else wants or thinks about this, other than you. What do you want?”

_If he fails to close the Breach tomorrow, the whole world goes to shit, anyway. What harm could one evening do?_

Dorian pulled his face towards Trevelyan’s, testing to see how little he actually cared about maintaining his good reputation. Gabriel’s face returned the gesture, meeting his lips for a brief kiss. Dorian could feel the swipe of Gabriel’s tongue in his mouth.

_This is just one evening, Dorian._

Dorian pulled his face back, his breath inexplicably ragged. All his sense had left him.

“Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a few comments about being a tease after the last chapter. I'm sorry. I hope this chapter makes up for it, before instantaneously ruining it again. Whoops.
> 
> Fun fact: This was the first chapter I wrote, oddly enough. Going back and re-reading it for edits was fun, because I deviated so very much from the original plan, added a ton of chapters, moved so many things around, etc. etc. So much needed to be changed! Haha.
> 
> Thanks again for all the comments and kudos, and WOW! Over 1000 hits!


	10. The Cabin in Haven

The door behind Trevelyan’s cabin closed behind the pair. Luckily, they hadn’t encountered anyone walking the path from the front gate to his quarters. Dorian relished the feeling of wood beneath his boots instead of bare earth, his eyes wandering aimlessly towards the hearth that burned in the fireplace.

“The servants come and stoke it every once in a while in the evening. But none should be back this late at night.” The Herald answered the question that Dorian hadn’t asked. “Care for a drink?”

“I thought you were trying to avoid a hangover, not induce one.”

“You only live once.” The Herald smirked, and opened up a bottle. He poured its contents out into two glasses. “You can move out of the entryway, you know.” Dorian rolled his eyes at himself, and he walked towards the table. The Herald extended a glass to him. “Cheers.” They clinked their glasses, and drank deeply. 

It seemed so strange to be standing back in the Herald’s quarters. The last time Dorian was here, he had accused Trevelyan of being a tyrant. He was sure that his time in the Inquisition would be a miserable slog, surrounded by a bunch of fool Southerners being lead by a dictator, who barreled through every problem with blinders on. How things had changed – the Herald had begun to grow into his role, and he’d certainly grown on Dorian. 

Trevelyan put his glass down on the table, and tilted his head up to catch Dorian’s gaze. “I’m glad you came tonight. I was afraid I would have to spend the evening alone.” He reached out, his hand grazing Dorian’s arm, sliding gently down towards his hand, grasping gently at his fingers. He pulled Dorian’s hand up to his lips and planted a kiss on his knuckles. Dorian responded instinctively, and placed his glass upon the table.

“It wouldn’t do to let you spend your evening by yourself, tonight of all nights.”

The Herald pulled Dorian’s arm over his shoulder and then rested his hand on Dorian’s chest, his other hand planted firmly on Dorian’s waist. He pulled Dorian against his body.

“I couldn’t have asked for better company.” His lips melted into Dorian’s. Dorian’s hand reached up to the Herald’s face, his fingers gently gripping, pulling the Herald as close as could be. Their kiss grew deeper, faster. Their tongues gently massaged each other’s, their lips moving in a perfect synchronicity, dedicated to their purpose. Trevelyan’s hands gripped down on Dorian, his lithe fingers giving him plenty of leverage as their bodies struggled to fill a space that no longer existed. Gabriel’s hand moved around Dorian’s back, sliding downward towards Dorian’s backside, continuing its descent until it cupped Dorian’s ass, his fingers gently working into the pert flesh. Dorian’s stomach burned with passion.

Trevelyan pulled away to catch his breath, and Dorian appreciated the momentary reprieve. “Wow,” he murmured between breaths.

“Which part?” Dorian exhaled suggestively. Gabriel’s eyes looked around for the words.

“Everything.” 

Their eyes locked for a moment, before their heads snapped back together, their mouths furiously working against each other. The Herald’s hand grasped at Dorian desperately, cupping his face, but careful not to get too close to his hair. _Smart man_ , Dorian thought. Dorian’s hands moved greedily down towards the Herald’s cloak, and he began to unfasten the straps that held it over the Herald’s shoulders. At the last buckle, the Herald broke free from Dorian’s lips, grabbed the cloak and threw it across the room, the sound of it arcing through the still air of the cabin punctuated by the final thud of the leather and fur hitting the ground.

The Herald returned the favor, but not with his hands – he tapped each of the buckles that held Dorian’s cloak in place, and they magically unfastened themselves, the Herald pulling the garment from Dorian’s shoulders when the final buckle came undone, resting it over the back of a chair.

“Showing off, are we?” Dorian asked.

“I’m surprised you didn’t!” Gabriel laughed lightly, before taking Dorian’s hands in his and kissing him deeply, his full lips bearing their weight down upon Dorian’s. _He wants a show, does he?_ Dorian pushed Trevelyan back ever so slightly, granting him a proper view. Dorian’s hand waved gracefully down his body, simultaneously undoing all of the straps and buckles that kept his shirt in place on his body. He felt the rush of cool air as his body was exposed, his shirt sliding open to reveal the flesh underneath. Dorian watched Trevelyan’s face intently, and felt the immediate gratification of seeing his lips part hungrily. Gabriel broke his gaze and looked up at Dorian, his hands sliding underneath Dorian’s open shirt, finding their way onto his waist. Dorian reveled in the physical contact, Gabriel’s fingers grazing across the plains of his torso. Dorian’s breath hitched in his chest as the static of Trevelyan’s touch coursed through his body.

The Herald’s breathing was controlled, deep, savoring the rarefied air that he breathed, his hands pulling at Dorian, winding their way around him, his lips kissing vigorously at Dorian’s neck, nibbling at his ears. Dorian’s head rolled and tilted in response to the stimulus, allowing the Herald complete access, as the Herald’s hands slid from under his shirt and grabbed on to the fabric, sliding it over and off of Dorian’s shoulders as his mouth worked at the flesh above Dorian’s collarbone. Dorian’s arms went through the motions of extricating themselves from the garment, leaving him bare-chested in front of Trevelyan once again.

“You know,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Trevelyan’s soft lips, “This is the second time I’ve ended up without a shirt, at your mercy.” Gabriel trailed his kisses further up Dorian’s neck. He pulled away for the briefest moment, grabbing Dorian’s chin gently, pulling his head down, making directly for his lips, meeting them, prying them apart, greedy for the taste of Dorian’s mouth.

“I think we can rectify that easily.” Trevelyan said. He began to undo the buttons of his shirt, starting from the top. Dorian joined him in his efforts, his hands reaching to the bottom of Trevelyan’s shirt, his fingers grazing the bulge in Gabriel’s pants, not at all accidentally. Dorian felt Trevelyan’s gaze upon him, and his eyes wandered up for a moment. Trevelyan’s face was slanted in a smirk. 

“Pleased with yourself?” Dorian asked. 

“Very.” Gabriel smiled. Their lips connected again, performing a dance that had grown surprisingly comfortable very quickly. The passion twisted around the pair, each movement increasing in intensity, as they fumbled over the damned buttons. As their hands met in the middle, their fingers tangled for a moment before Dorian reached up to help remove Gabriel’s overshirt. Gabriel’s hand moved down, to untuck his undershirt, which he pulled swiftly over his head, and let it errantly fall off the edge of the table onto the floor. 

Whereas Dorian had been intent on giving Trevelyan a show, Trevelyan refused to extend the same courtesy, instead picking up where they left off, his lips darting straight for Dorian’s. Dorian was more than happy to oblige, letting himself be swept away in the moment, pulled under the waves by Trevelyan. Dorian’s hands wandered across Trevelyan’s figure, mapping every inch of the uncharted territory, tracing every curve, caressing every muscle that contracted underneath his fingers. Trevelyan was equally rapacious, his hands slithering up and down Dorian’s back like a serpent that had coiled around its prey. He slid down, further and further, his hands finding their way to the top of Dorian’s pants, his fingers traipsing further down, underneath Dorian’s undergarments, grasping at his ass, his long fingers reaching across the flesh, determined to capture as much of Dorian’s ample backside as possible within his hands.

Dorian relished the sensation of Trevelyan’s desire – his tongue, his hands, his torso all pressing against Dorian insatiably, greedy for more contact. Dorian hesitated from returning too much affection too soon, electing to keep his hands steady upon Gabriel’s chest, feeling his breath rise and fall unevenly. Trevelyan’s lips began to hasten their movement, as he removed his hands from Dorian’s pants and raced them around to the front of Dorian’s body, impatiently tugging at the buckles and straps, making quick work of whatever resistance they put up. Dorian felt his waistband loosen, sliding lower on his hips, as Gabriel’s fingers hitched themselves on the inside of Dorian’s smallclothes, and gently began to tug down. Their lips parted as Trevelyan’s gaze turned downwards, his eyes eager. Dorian felt his clothes slide down, further and further, his smallclothes edging their way against his length, until he was completely free. Trevelyan let out a small murmur from the back of his throat. Dorian was used to the reactions he received from the men who had the immense pleasure of seeing his naked physique, the litany of praise and compliments that he’d become acclimated to, but of course, Trevelyan perpetually confounded expectations. 

“Speechless?” Dorian asked, coyly.

The Herald’s hands freed themselves from Dorian’s pants. He bowed his knees, grabbing Dorian under his thighs and lifting him into the air. Dorian gasped in surprise, his arms latching on to Gabriel’s shoulders instinctively. Trevelyan heaved Dorian with surprising ease – he wasn’t much larger than Dorian – across the room, before carefully seating Dorian on the bed in the corner of the room. Dorian’s brain reveled in the comfort of the bed underneath him – far superior to the cot that he’d had to acclimate to. The Herald made right for Dorian’s boots, magicking the straps and carefully but quickly pulling the boots off of Dorian’s feet, before peeling his pants the rest of the way off his body. He leaned back, on his knees, hands on his legs, admiring his handiwork. His gazed upon Dorian’s body with a lustful reverence, confounding their roles momentarily – Trevelyan was, after all, the holy figurehead.

He leaned forward, his hands moving from his own legs up to Dorian’s, sliding up Dorian’s thighs, until they settled on Dorian’s hips, his thumbs trailing the lines leading down towards Dorian’s member. 

“You know…” Trevelyan’s voice trailed off. 

“What do I know?” Dorian asked, his voice sincerely curious.

“I have been thinking about you naked since that day in the stream.” He laughed at his own admission, before reaching himself up to meet Dorian’s lips with his own. The fire burned inside of them, between them, every quiver of their lips stoking the flames higher and higher. Dorian pulled at Trevelyan’s waist, trying to encourage him to stand, but the Herald resisted. Dorian pulled away, mildly frustrated.

“Not planning on taking your pants off?” Dorian asked. Trevelyan laughed throatily, echoing off the walls of the cabin. His hand reached out, grabbing Dorian’s cock, stroking up and down, building a steady rhythm. Dorian’s muscles coiled violently in response to the sudden move, and his head swam violently in pleasure in spite of himself.

Gabriel’s other hand found its way to Dorian’s chest. His eyes pierced through his target, teasing him. “Oh, they’ll be coming off, but not before I had a chance to do this.”

Trevelyan pushed Dorian’s chest back, forcing Dorian back onto his forearms. His torso slid in between Dorian’s legs, and his head dropped down, his full lips parting against the head of Dorian’s cock. Dorian sighed deeply, the feeling of Gabriel’s tender lips and generous mouth bobbing up and down in his lap, his member responding to the stimulation by hardening completely in Gabriel’s mouth. Dorian’s head rolled back as the sensation reverberated through his body, Gabriel’s hand guiding his mouth up and down on Dorian’s length. Dorian managed to fight the pull of gravity and heave his head upright to appreciate the scene before him, and found Trevelyan staring intently at him, his eyes narrowed and determined. Flames explode inside him, and his hand found his way to the back of Gabriel’s head, resting gently, mimicking the motion. Gabriel’s hand dropped away, his warm mouth taking in more and more of Dorian with each dip, until finally, his lips slid down the length of Dorian’s cock and reached the base. Dorian inhaled sharply at the sensation, his head bucking back reflexively.

“ _Kaffas!_ ” he exhaled, his head snapping back to look at the Herald, whose eyes remained fixed on Dorian. His glare was defiant, as if he refused to let Dorian go until he begged for mercy, his head bobbing gently at the base of Dorian’s cock, his cheeks hollowing with suction as he rose, releasing the pressure as he fell.

_Another game._

Dorian’s fingers worked his way through Gabriel’s hair, as his hips bucked lightly at the feeling of Trevelyan’s mouth wrapped around him. Dorian could feel the Herald’s tongue rolling ever so slightly on the underside of his dick. His stomach rose and fell violently with his heavy breathing, yet still Gabriel held on, his eyes beginning to water. Dorian felt the back of Trevelyan’s throat recoil against the tip of his cock, and felt his lips draw back over his length.

“Ugh,” Trevelyan coughed. 

“I have to admit, your determination doesn’t surprise me in the least.” Trevelyan’s hand found his way back on to Dorian’s cock, rubbing generously. Dorian shuddered against the sensation.

“I was inspired. You are _very_ impressive.” Gabriel smiled, his head bowing back down to take Dorian in his mouth again. 

“Just figuring that out now?” His hand was back on Gabriel’s head, which bobbed up to roll his tongue around the head of Dorian’s cock. 

“Oh, I’d noticed.” He smiled wickedly. “I just had to make sure you knew I was no slouch.” His mouth went back to his work. Dorian debated for a moment whether or not he ought to be greedy, but decided against it. _This night isn’t about you, for once, Pavus._

He pulled up Trevelyan’s head, tugging at his hair. “Come now, let’s get those pants off.” Gabriel smiled, his mouth sloppy with saliva. He stood up, having magicked all the buckles of his boots loose, kicking them off eagerly. Dorian busied himself with his pants, undoing the buttons that kept them in place. He noticed the bulge in Trevelyan’s pants, wondering if maybe, he was hallucinating. _Only one way to find out._ He tugged Trevelyan’s pants down, in a quick motion, and watched Trevelyan’s luscious member flop out of his pants.

 _No. Not hallucinating. Sweet Maker. Close you mouth._

Dorian looked up at Trevelyan, who stared down at Dorian with a warm smile. He bowed down, his lips meeting Dorian’s, as his hands moved to remove his pants. Dorian’s hand found its way to Trevelyan’s dick, sliding gently, taking the time to truly appreciate the length and girth. Gabriel reached his arms out and pushed Dorian back onto the bed, but Dorian’s hand was determined, refusing to release Gabriel from his grasp, forcing the Herald to fall over Dorian, his hands on either side of Dorian’s body, holding himself up. He bowed himself down towards Dorian’s mouth, again, greedy for a taste of his lips, but limiting access to his impressive member. 

Gabriel didn’t seem to care. The kiss was slowed, stilled, but deep and fluid, his tongue delicately massaging Dorian, his teeth catching Dorian’s lips in a most gentle tug. Dorian wasn’t displeased that Trevelyan was intent on keeping their mouths occupied, but his currently immobile hand was slightly irritating him. Dorian freed himself from Gabriel’s lips, but they found their way to his cheek, his ear, his neck, in a gentle, rapid succession. 

“Determined to spend the entire evening kissing me?” Dorian asked.

“I distinctly remember having your cock in my mouth and enjoying it thoroughly.” Gabriel murmured, in breaths between his barrage of kisses, trailing the line of Dorian’s clavicle.

“I supposed I thought you’d be a little more eager to get to something more _substantial_.” Dorian quipped, tittering as Trevelyan’s mouth worked its way up his throat.

“Why? Because of tomorrow?” Gabriel pulled back, staring at Dorian intently. Dorian took the opportunity to move his hand up the length of Trevelyan’s cock, feeling it twitch powerfully in response. Trevelyan moaned lightly.

“I wouldn’t have phrased it so indelicately, but yes.” Dorian’s hand continued its motion. Dorian saw Trevelyan’s mouth twist with pleasure. He gazed down at Dorian, his eyes warm and relaxed. He chuckled lightly.

“I’m very eager, I’ll have you know. I just want to savor the moment.” Gabriel’s hand moved towards Dorian’s face, his thumb gently stroking at his cheek. “This,” Trevelyan’s eyes moved down Dorian’s body, and back up to his face, “has been occupying my mind for a while.”

“Mine as well,” Dorian admitted, a little too freely, but Trevelyan was pleased with the answer. 

“Come, let’s move. We have plenty of space on the bed, and we’re dangling off of it.” Dorian obliged, releasing his grip, and sliding up towards a pillow, his head reveling in its softness. Clearly, the Herald’s title had afforded him luxuries that hadn’t emanated out to the rest of the inhabitants of Haven. Gabriel slid comfortably next to Dorian, his leg finding a place between Dorian’s, his body pressed against Dorian’s side. His face bowed down, allowing Dorian’s head to remain relaxed against his pillow. Their mouths pressed against each other again, returning to their comfortable rhythm. 

Dorian’s earlier frustration at Trevelyan’s seeming refusal to allow access to his cock rose back up, and Dorian wasn’t going to allow this injustice to continue for much longer. He pushed himself against Trevelyan, rolling on top of him, pinning Gabriel underneath him, feeling his girth underneath Dorian’s own. Dorian worked himself onto his knees, and his hand traveled quickly down Trevelyan’s torso, until his hand was firmly wrapped around Trevelyan’s cock, stroking intensely. 

He could feel Gabriel’s breath quicken against his lips, delighting at the response to his masterful hands. He pulled his head away from Trevelyan’s, regretting the separation but for a moment as his lips worked their way down Trevelyan’s body. He felt Trevelyan’s gaze tilt down, following Dorian as he slid down Trevelyan’s impossibly taut body. Dorian trailed the line in the middle of Trevelyan’s stomach with his tongue, slipping further, past his bellybutton, kissing down the patch of hair that had taunted him that day in the spring. 

His head gracefully arced up, positioning itself right above Trevelyan’s swollen member, which stood at full attention. Dorian flicked his gaze up towards Trevelyan, whose eyes looked down hungrily, his pouty lips parted in glorious anticipation. Dorian’s mouth wrapped itself around Trevelyan’s cock, his tongue working gently against the head, sucking lightly as he watched Trevelyan’s head flop back into the pillow, his chest rising in pleasure as his hips pushed down against the bed. Dorian’s slid his lips down, as far as he could go, and still, it wasn’t enough to take all of Trevelyan. _Just a bit more_ , he thought, as he pushed himself, feeling his mustache brush against the hair above Gabriel’s member. 

Trevelyan moaned loudly, the sound coming from deep within him, his legs twitching in response to Dorian’s maneuver. “Shit!” he yelled, his hands winding themselves into the sheets, his knuckles white with pressure. Dorian’s head rose up, feeling the soreness in the back of his throat, impressed that his dedication had paid off. His mouth continued its work, his tongue licking up the underside of the Herald’s shaft and back down again. He took Trevelyan’s balls into his mouth in succession, listening to his sharp, ragged breaths and the moans that accompanied each one. The Herald’s body was pliant, responding to Dorian’s motions, determined to make his work as easy as possible. 

_This one can never sit back and enjoy himself._

Dorian returned his mouth to the Herald’s cock, sliding up and down, determined to watch the Herald writhe. 

He felt Gabriel’s hand reach down and lift his chin up, pulling Dorian’s head up. “I wasn’t finished!” Dorian protested.

“Was that what you wanted? A few more minutes, and I’m sure you would have had your way. Your mouth is incredible.” 

“I’m pleased that you recognize talent. I could say the same of yours.”

The Herald laughed. “Thank you.” His fingers tried to pull Dorian’s head up toward him, but Dorian resisted. The Herald laughed. “And you think I’m stubborn?” 

Dorian lips parted and wrapped themselves around Trevelyan, sucking gently, watching Trevelyan’s eyes widen in pleasure. He pulled himself up, “I said,” Dorian started, his voice dripping with lust, “I wasn’t finished.”

“Well, if you won’t come to me…” Trevelyan’s voice trailed off as he sat himself up. Dorian latched on to his cock, determined to keep Gabriel in his thrall. The Herald chuckled slightly. His hand moved towards Dorian’s head, but he stopped. “Can’t touch the hair.” _Smart man._ Dorian rewarded him with a deep thrust. The Herald’s head titled up momentarily in pleasure, his hand finding its place on Dorian’s upper back, sliding down Dorian’s spine toward his ass. He learned forward, extending his reach, his fingers greedily slipping between Dorian’s cheeks, gently rubbing against his hole. Dorian’s body responded reflexively, arcing his back to give Trevelyan better access. He was determined to pleasure Trevelyan, and one quick glance upwards confirmed that he was certainly enjoying Dorian’s body. 

Trevelyan fell backwards, twisting over towards the nightstand next to his bed. Dorian watched him intently as he opened the drawer, his hand groping through its contents until it found what he was searching for: a small vial of oil, which he placed upon the nightstand, before returning to the determined mage before him.

“Still haven’t had your fill?” He laughed. Dorian dipped his head down, struggling against the back of his throat. Gabriel’s mouth dropped open in response to the sensation. Dorian enjoyed this little game, especially because for once, he was winning. Trevelyan’s eyes narrowed at Dorian, sitting up and grabbing Dorian by the leg in one swift motion, and pulled Dorian’s lower body up towards his face, again with an ease that was slightly unsettling. _Maybe they were right in the Imperium: all Southerners are barbarians._

Dorian felt the warmth of Trevelyan’s mouth on his cock once more, and this time, he was dedicated, purposeful, moving up and down the entirety at a voracious pace, distracting Dorian from his own work long enough to squeeze a moan from Dorian’s lungs. The sound of pleasure emanating from Dorian seemingly deepened the Herald’s resolve, his hands gripping Dorian’s thighs, pushing his head down harder and faster in an unforgiving rhythm. Dorian buckled under the pleasure, hardly able to keep a grip on Trevelyan’s cock, as the heavy breaths poured from within him, dragging the moans from deep in his chest. Dorian’s body writhed as Gabriel’s hand found its way back in between his cheeks, circling his hole like a predator. Trevelyan had reduced Dorian to nothing, his muscles incapable of voluntary motion, his eyes losing their focus, when all of a sudden, Trevelyan’s mouth released him from its grasp. Dorian reeled, still feeling the burn of Gabriel’s handiwork, when he felt Trevelyan’s tongue glide along his taint, moving steadily towards his ass.

The sensation of Trevelyan’s tongue pressing gently against Dorian’s hole was incredible, to say the least, but compared to his prior assault, it allowed Dorian the luxury of regaining his senses and rededicating himself to his purpose. Dorian paused for a moment, savoring the sensation of Trevelyan’s tongue, whose relaxed pace sent gentle pulses of pleasure through Dorian, as he rededicated himself to the task at hand. As his mouth met the tip of Trevelyan’s cock once more, he was thankful that Gabriel was dedicated to loosening him up, and for the vial of oil at the beside – _saliva would certainly be insufficient if the Herald intends to fuck me._

The Herald’s head moved away, all too quickly for Dorian’s liking, as he grabbed for the small vial, uncorking it delicately and gently dipping a finger in. He held the vial steady, as his finger found its way to Dorian’s hole, gently dipping into Dorian, whose eyes rolled back in response to the sensation, eager for more. Trevelyan removed his finger gingerly, returning to the vial, spilling a bit more of the oil on to his finger, then on to Dorian. He placed the vial on the bedside, and turned back to his task, planting one hand firmly on Dorian’s cheek, letting the other finger gently slide into Dorian, slowly.

“Please let me know if I’m hurting you. That will require you to take my dick out of your mouth.” Dorian obliged with an exaggerated sigh. He felt the Herald’s finger slide into him, pushing gently against his insides, creeping slowly along, until Dorian’s hips bucked forward violently and he whimpered in excruciating ecstasy. “There we are.” Dorian could see Trevelyan’s smile, even though his eyes had completely lost their focus. Trevelyan exploited this newfound weakness, gently pressing down repeatedly, watching Dorian’s body respond in increasingly forceful ways, his legs giving way to the impossible sensation, sprawled across Trevelyan’s chest, his hips writhing with every one of the Herald’s gentle motions. At first, he was reactive, but as he familiarized himself with the sensation, he felt his hips rising to meet Gabriel’s hand. _When did you become so eager to make his job easier?_

He heard the vial slide off the nightstand again, and felt the cool drip of oil against his skin. Trevelyan removed his finger, much to Dorian’s disdain, as he lied there in a haze. “I can’t imagine you’re comfortable in that position.” 

Dorian lifted his head, which in response to the flurry of activity occurring at the other end of his body, he had dug into the sheets. He opened his eyes ever so slightly, tilting his face towards the source of Gabriel’s voice. “Oh, I’m quite alright.” The Herald laughed at him, and summoned up more of his ridiculous strength to flip Dorian over. 

“Come up here. I miss your lips.” 

The sweet admission brought Dorian back to reality. He’d been so lost in the physical that when his heart jumped up in his chest, it was easy to find his way back. He smiled at Gabriel, and moved his way up the bed, lying next to the Herald, who rolled over on top of Dorian. His lips grabbed onto Dorian’s aggressively, kissing him deeply, as his fingers trailed down to Dorian’s hole. “You’ll let me know if I hurt you, right?” 

“Maker, you’re surprisingly delicate for a man who regularly strong arms his allies.” 

“Well, this is a much more delicate operation, don’t you think?” Gabriel asked, his lips pressing against Dorian’s, as his fingers sunk into Dorian, two this time. He was so tender, so careful to make sure that Dorian was all right – or that he was milking as much pleasure from Dorian as possible. His fingers pressed upward, and Dorian’s muscles seized up, the whimper that escaped his lips ringing into Trevelyan’s open mouth. 

“Are you okay?” Trevelyan asked. Dorian’s hips pushed down, further onto Trevelyan’s fingers, as his arms reached over Trevelyan’s shoulders, pulling them together, refusing to let Trevelyan go as his fingers slowly slid in and out. Dorian tried impossibly hard to keep his body in control, but the control was gone, completely lost to Gabriel’s expert digits. He felt another finger, slowly, carefully, edging its way into him, and he lost himself completely, his eyes unable to open, his mouth unable to maintain the rhythm of the kiss. Trevelyan sunk his fingers in slowly, and Dorian threw his head over Trevelyan’s shoulder, howling in pleasure at the sensation. 

Gabriel continued his assault for what felt like an eternity, and Dorian was helpless to do anything but hold on, praying for release. Gabriel withdrew his fingers. The release did not come. He pulled his head back, to look at Trevelyan, whose eyes were soft and tender. He kissed Dorian on the nose.

Trevelyan sighed, his voice low, rumbling in his chest. “If you don’t want to do this, we don’t need to go any further.”

“I sincerely hope you don’t think you get to stop now, after all that torture.”

“Are you sure?”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t?”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Dorian.” He looked down. Dorian followed his gaze and realized what he meant.

“And they say the Maker doesn’t give with both hands.”

“Dorian,” Gabriel started.

“We’ll take it slowly. It will be fine. You won’t hurt me.”

“I didn’t mean just physically, Dorian.” Trevelyan looked at Dorian, his eyes steady, but sad. Dorian’s mind wandered for a moment, in the fields of his own imagination. _He doesn’t want to hurt me – not just physically._ He stopped himself, before it took root. _He just means that he doesn’t want you to get too invested, especially when he might die tomorrow. Don’t hold out hope, Pavus._

Dorian leaned forward and kissed Trevelyan, plain and steady, to reassure him that yes, Dorian wanted this just as much as he did. Dorian’s hand reached to the nightstand, and he uncorked the vial of oil, spreading it generously over Trevelyan’s cock. Trevelyan’s eyes closed, reeling in the pleasure of the contact. 

Dorian replaced the vial on the nightstand, and lied back on the pillows, placing his legs around Trevelyan’s waist, inviting him to move forward. He was reticent, which Dorian found endearing, in a way. He wouldn’t have pegged Trevelyan as a tender, delicate lover, but Dorian paused – _The only thing unsurprising about Trevelyan is that he is, in fact, perpetually surprising._

Trevelyan leaned forward, another kiss, slower and gentler this time, probably to set the pace for the rest of his body, Dorian reasoned. He felt Trevelyan’s hand slide down between his legs, before he pulled himself back, staring down at Dorian’s body. _Well, if one of us doesn’t make a move, we’ll sit here all night._ Dorian reached his hand down and pulled on Trevelyan’s member, pushing the tip against his hole. 

“Last chance. I promise, my feelings wouldn’t be hurt.” Trevelyan joked weakly.

“I’m not sure what will kill me first, the anticipation, or old age, sitting here waiting for you to make a move.”

Trevelyan nodded, and began to ease himself forward. Dorian felt the pressure of the tip of Trevelyan’s cock pressing against him, and took a deep breath, focusing on relaxing himself. He moved slowly, his eyes gazing down at Dorian’s face, searching for any sign of discomfort. _Was he trying to get out of this?_ He felt Trevelyan slide further into him, keeping his breath steady and his face controlled – he was afraid that even the slightest twitch of an eyebrow would halt Trevelyan’s advance, and Dorian was determined to prevent that from happening.

Dorian felt the familiar sensation, the blinding whirl of pleasure in spite of the slight discomfort – _he found the spot_ – and he lost control for a moment, his body rising in recognition. Trevelyan stopped, his hand finding its way to Dorian’s face.

“Are you alright? I can pull out,” Trevelyan said, his voice tinged with urgency, his eyes glistening with anxiety. _Is he even enjoying this?_

“No,” Dorian gasped. He wrapped his arms around Trevelyan’s shoulders, and brought their lips together to calm him with a kiss. Dorian edged his hips closer to Trevelyan’s, feeling him slide further in, blinding Dorian with pleasure. He felt Trevelyan’s hips press against his ass – _that’s it_ – and he pulled Trevelyan closer, chest to chest, wanting to feel Trevelyan wrapped all over him.

Trevelyan responded in kind, his arm sliding underneath Dorian while his other hand rested underneath Dorian’s head. He parted their lips for a moment, gazing down at Dorian, his face flush with pleasure. Dorian felt Trevelyan twitch inside of him, and breathed deep as the sensation coursed through him. He rolled his hips gently, feeling Trevelyan move inside of him, and moaned lowly at the sensation. Trevelyan’s hips began to rock back, slowly and gently, before his pushed forward again. Dorian sighed as the entirety of Trevelyan’s cock entered him, completely awash in the pinprick sensation that was causing his toes to curl against his will. 

Dorian grabbed Trevelyan’s face out of the air above him, and pulled him close, his kiss rabid and uncontrolled, as Trevelyan’s hips continued to move, building their steady pace with each thrust. Dorian couldn’t suppress the sounds that come from him, or the steady stream of Tevene curses that spilled out of the corners of his mouth in spite of the fact that his lips were very occupied. 

Trevelyan kept a respectable pace, moving in and out of Dorian, who couldn’t seem to acclimate himself to the pulse that ripped through him with each thrust. The Herald’s breath was ragged from exertion, but he refused to allow Dorian’s lips to leave his own.

They went on like this, every movement building in Dorian, driving him to the edges of sanity. Dorian had slept with his fair share of men, in Tevinter and beyond, and most of them had been admirable in one way or another, whether it was their physicality, their technique, or their status – not that the last one meant much, considering Dorian had no one to brag to, that time he’d managed to seduce a relative of the Archon. Sure, it was only his second cousin, twice removed, but thus far, it was the loftiest noble that he’d managed to conquer. Unfortunately, he was an absolute slouch between the sheets - unlike Trevelyan.

Trevelyan had everything. Dorian watched the face above him, his eyebrows furrowed in dedication to his cause, his wet lips parted, looking down at Dorian. The scant light from the fireplace cast sharp shadows over the angles of his face, turning the small beads of sweat that were forming on his face into shadowy diamonds. Dorian wished he could make out the look behind Trevelyan’s eyes, but all he could tell was that, per his earlier suspicions, his eyes did glow with the color of the Mark. 

Trevelyan fucked like he kissed – once he’d built up his thrusts to a steady momentum, he slowed down, his strokes long and deep, before he picked the pace up again. Dorian responded in kind – he refused to be anything but an active participant, regardless of the role he assumed. _This could be his last go_ , Dorian thought. _He deserves a proper send-off._ He felt Gabriel begin to quicken his pace again, and he looked up into his eyes.

“Stop holding back.” Dorian breathed. 

“I’m not!” Trevelyan laughed, the sound strained by his exertion.

“If you insist.” Dorian rolled his eyes. Trevelyan scoffed, seemingly offended.

“Alright, then.” Trevelyan said gravely. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Dorian was right. He had been holding back. Trevelyan’s thrusts were fast and long, and he dug himself into Dorian savagely. Dorian had given up on moaning – that would have implied he’d been at all concerned with controlling the volume of his voice. Trevelyan buried his head in the pillow next to Dorian’s head, muffling his own shouts. Dorian reeled internally, his jaw clenching at the intensity of the Herald’s thrusts. He was right to have warned Dorian – everything about this was beyond. Lost in the pleasure of the moment, an unfortunate thought dragged at the edges of whatever was left of his mind. _This may be the only time you get to enjoy this._

Trevelyan’s pace slowed, his breath ragged as he pulled himself up. “If I keep that up much longer, I’ll be finished.”

Dorian floated back down to his body, his fingernails removing themselves from Trevelyan’s shoulders. “Well,” Dorian exhaled, “we can’t have that just yet.” 

“Blame yourself.” 

“And why should I do that?”

“Because your ass is incredible. Inspiring, really. The closest thing I’ve had to a religious experience in my life, and apparently, Andraste pushed me out of the Fade.”

Dorian laughed at the sheer blasphemy. _Delightful._

“Well then, take your time. Proper worship shouldn’t be rushed.”

Trevelyan laughed heartily, kissing Dorian before the sound had trailed off. He heaved Dorian up off the bed, his arms supporting Dorian’s back as they rose, Dorian comfortably seated on Trevelyan’s cock, which sunk further into Dorian, who arched his back in response. Gabriel’s hand worked itself down to Dorian’s cock, and he began to stroke, in unison with his own thrusts. Dorian leaned back on his hands, drinking in every sensation. Dorian wasn’t sure what he was enjoying more – the pleasure of Trevelyan’s cock gently moving inside of him, the sensation of Trevelyan’s hand masterfully stroking him, or the taste of Trevelyan’s mouth on his tongue. Luckily, he didn’t have to choose.

They sat in this position for a time, their mouths never parting, a sweet repose from the previous intensity, Trevelyan’s short, soft thrusts still managing to drive Dorian wild. Dorian was slightly disappointed that Trevelyan wasn’t getting the proper leverage in this position – nor was he given a proper view of Dorian’s physique. Dorian pushed forward, into his chest.

“Lie on your back.” Dorian commanded. Trevelyan smiled. He pulled Dorian off of his lap, his cock sliding carefully out of Dorian – who loathed the sudden emptiness. Trevelyan laid on top of Dorian carefully, his mouth reaching down for a quick kiss, before rolling over onto his bank. Dorian slid over, his legs straddling the Herald, taking his cock into his hand, positioning himself directly over it, before taking it into himself, greedily. He moaned loudly as he felt the entirety of Trevelyan’s cock slide into him, again. 

Trevelyan’s hands slipped on to Dorian’s waist, as Dorian began to rise and fall. His motions were dedicated, strictly up and down – none of that dragging yourself back and forth across someone’s lap like a sick dog. Dorian writhed on top of Trevelyan, watching him melt underneath him, his eyes transfixed on Dorian’s figure. _I have your right where I want you._ His pace was purposefully erratic – he refused to allow Trevelyan to acclimate to the spasms of pleasure. Trevelyan sighed heavily, looking up at Dorian, his face suddenly soft. 

“What’s the matter?” Dorian asked, trying his best to keep his tone seductive.

Trevelyan’s hands grazed over Dorian’s torso, his touch light as a feather. “You’re so beautiful.” His voice was pure; his words felt less like a statement of fact and more like an admission. If there was one thing that Dorian loved more than alcohol, it was the compliments that fell from the lips of the men he bedded. But this was different. He could lie to himself, pretend that this was an act of mercy, or a conquest, but he felt something deeper, and it wasn’t Trevelyan slowly beginning to thrust into him. Dorian bowed forward, his lips moving toward Trevelyan, but stopping just short. His mouth opened, teasing Trevelyan’s lips, before he spoke.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Trevelyan smiled broadly, pulling Dorian into him, kissing him impatiently, as he began to work himself into Dorian. Dorian hovered just above Gabriel’s lap, giving him perfect access, feeling him thrust deeper and harder. Trevelyan’s hand wrapped itself around Dorian’s cock again. Dorian couldn’t imagine how much longer this could all last. He felt the familiar sensation rising up inside of him, spurred on by Trevelyan’s continued assault. 

“I’m getting close.”

“Me too,” Gabriel replied breathily. He continued, his thrusts growing deeper and longer, as Dorian’s limbs began to betray him. Dorian lifted himself up, his hands on Trevelyan’s chest, clutching onto him. “Where should I finish?” Trevelyan asked, his voice strained with the imminent release rising inside him. 

“Inside,” Dorian spit, unable to control his tone, his body teetering over the edge.

“Fuck, Dorian,” Trevelyan growled, his muscles tensing, his grip on Dorian’s cock tightening desperately. Dorian hardly heard a word he was saying. 

“Kaffas!” he muttered, as he felt himself shoot violently. His arms gave out underneath him, and he slumped down onto the Herald’s chest, his cock sputtering out what seemed to be an endless amount of seed. He felt himself tighten around Trevelyan, which seemed to push him over the edge. Trevelyan loosed a moan from his lips that quaked with every final thrust, each one slower and shallower than the next.

 _Wow_. Dorian tried to put words to everything, but they all managed to evade his grasp. He stopped reaching and just settled into the warm glow that surrounded him. Nestled against the Herald of Andraste, covered in the sticky aftermath of his orgasm, in an actual bed with a _mattress_ – it all seemed so surreal.

They gathered themselves, breathing heavily as their chests fought each other for more space. Dorian managed to tilt his head up to look at Trevelyan, and noticed the glob that slashed across Trevelyan’s eye like a battle scar. Trevelyan turned, his other eye wide open, staring at Dorian. Dorian was positively mortified.

“Great aim. Although, I suppose I have myself to blame.”

“How do you mean?” Dorian’s voice lowered, his tone suspicious.

“I’m guessing that I had something to do with the distance of that explosion,” Trevelyan said, all too pleased with himself. _Ass._ “I won’t ask you to admit it, not that you would.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Just had to ruin the post-coital bliss, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t taking all the credit. Besides, I’m pretty sure you drained me completely. So much for closing that Breach tomorrow.” He laughed hoarsely.

“You shouldn’t even joke about that,” Dorian sighed. “If you fail, they’ll have my head on a platter – not that it would matter much, after the Elder One kills us all.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’m more confident that I’ll successfully seal the Breach now than I’ve ever been before.”

“I’m sure I can’t wait to hear why,” Dorian murmured, his voice exasperated.

“Because I refuse to let this be the last time this happens.”

In spite of himself, Dorian smiled at Trevelyan with abandon. His mind leapt up, screaming, trying to force his facial muscles to contort into something other than the stupid grin that had taken complete control of his face, but it was a hopeless endeavor. Hope had taken hold, climbing up like vines, wrapping around him, and he couldn’t cut it down fast enough to stop it from spreading throughout him. 

“So if you do manage to close the Breach and survive the ordeal, does that mean I get to take the credit?” Dorian asked playfully. No matter the conflict that churned inside him, he still had his wits to fall back on.

The Herald smiled back at Dorian. “You can take _all_ the credit, and the Mark while you’re at it.”

“A Tevinter with access to unknowable magical power – that’s always ended well, historically.”

“I’m joking,” Trevelyan said, his eyes softening. “Even if I could give it, I’d never let you take it. This is my burden to bear. I would never let you suffer in my stead.”

Dorian felt the warm pull try to overtake him again, but he batted it away with what willpower he had left. “Let me grab a rag and clean you off. We already have a Qunari without an eye, can’t have you trying to save the world with one of yours stuck shut.”

Dorian tried to pull away, but Trevelyan dragged him back down. “Not just yet. Besides, if you’re the one giving me battle scars, I’d wear them with pride.” 

Dorian’s lips sank into Trevelyan, as they wrapped themselves around each other. Trevelyan’s arms slid up and down Dorian’s back gently, caressing him, while Dorian’s fingers mindlessly twirled themselves through Trevelyan’s silvery locks. This night had exceeded Dorian’s wildest expectations, and he wasn’t quite ready to let it go, even though he knew it was all coming to an end. He pulled himself off Trevelyan, whose hands couldn’t seem to leave Dorian’s side, and swung his legs off the bed. He stood, almost losing his footing from the unanticipated wobble in his knees, and made his way across the room, grabbing an errant cloth that lay on a table, and returned to the bed. He brought the cloth to Trevelyan’s face, gently rubbing the residue of his orgasm away. Trevelyan opened his eye slowly, blinking back against the light, and assuredly the salty sting.

“Remind me to cover my eyes next time.” He chuckled, rubbing gently at the corner with his knuckle. Dorian was less gentle with his chest and stomach, quickly removing all proof that anything had transpired between the two, before turning the cloth on himself and repeating the motion on himself. He brought the cloth back to the table and stood there for a moment, silently regretting what was about to come, before turning back to face Trevelyan.

“Well, I suppose that I ought to be leaving.”

“Why would you leave?” Trevelyan asked, his voice low and warm.

“Need I remind you once more about tomorrow? Can’t have me slinking out your quarters in the morning light, for all the Inquisition to see.” Trevelyan sighed, and proceeded to heave himself out of the bed. He moved towards Dorian, his own weight apparently a bit too much for his legs. _Neither of us can stand properly. This bodes well for tomorrow’s endeavors._

“Dorian,” Trevelyan started, his hands on Dorian’s waist, his forehead pressing against Dorian’s own. “Please. Stay the night. I couldn’t care less who might see you leaving in the morning, or what they might think.”

“Gabriel…” Dorian protested, his mind racing to find a convincing reason for him to leave Trevelyan’s arms.

“No. Stop. Don’t do that thing, where you reason this away, or gloss over it with a joke. If you want to stay, then stay. If you want to go, then go. But don’t do it because you’re afraid of what people might think, about me, or about us.”

Trevelyan’s eyes were intent, set upon Dorian, looking right into him. Both he and Dorian were naked, but Trevelyan’s insight brought with it a whole new level of exposure. Dorian’s stomach revolted inside of him, the angry bile tightening his entire chest, the horrible discomfort of being seen, the illusions he’d so carefully constructed dispelled by Trevelyan with little effort. _Solas is a bloody fool. Trevelyan could never have been just an average mage – not with magic like this._ Dorian’s head swam, drowning in the ocean of a million reasons why he should put his clothes on, walk out the door, and not invite controversy and criticism upon himself. Trevelyan’s lips found their way to him, the breath of life, parting the seas and saving Dorian from death at the hands of his own doubt. Dorian kissed him back, pushing him back towards the bed, lowering their bodies down towards the sheets and pillows. He leaned over Trevelyan’s body. 

“Fine. I’ll stay. At the very least, it will be a refreshing change of pace to sleep in a proper bed.” Trevelyan smiled at the news, pulling Dorian towards him as he crept up the bed, his head finally coming to rest on a pillow. He leaned down, tugging the covers out from underneath him, carefully pulling them evenly over their two bodies. He laid back, his arm outstretched, waiting for Dorian to take his place by his side. Dorian slid over his arm carefully, assuming his position in the nook, his leg twisted over the Herald, his head resting against Trevelyan’s shoulder, his cheek pressed against Trevelyan’s flesh, his nose drinking in Trevelyan’s scent. Dorian hadn’t recalled the last time he’d been this intoxicated without liquor to blame.

Trevelyan’s free hand reached over to carefully grab Dorian’s chin, and he pulled his face up for a final kiss before they drifted off to sleep. Dorian savored every moment, before returning his head to its appointed place, feeling the familiar sensation of sleep tugging at his extremities, inviting him to drift away. He wasn’t sure what awaited him in his dreams, if anything might compare to his present reality.

“This feels right.” Trevelyan murmured. Dorian, fading away, purred his concurrence in the back of his throat. His heavy eyes peeked up towards the face of the Herald, the hero who would save all of Thedas, lying still, his face peaceful and content.

_I’m glad we agree._

____

 

Dorian walked out of the tree line, towards the impossibly bright shore, his eyes squinting against the light that shone off everything – the turquoise sea, the white sand. He felt the warm, salty breeze against his skin, and breathed in deeply, his eyes finally adjusting to the light. 

He moved towards a figure, standing at the edge of the water, the waves breaking gently upon his feet, his silvery hair glowing otherworldly as it danced in the wind. 

_Trevelyan._

He kept walking forward, his gait unsure, as he moved through the unfamiliar territory. The sand underneath his feet was as soft as the finest silks the Imperium had to offer, the ocean was calm, the sound of the waves hitting the shore like a gentle heartbeat. Trevelyan turned, his eyes meeting Dorian’s. 

An eternity passed as they moved towards each other, Dorian drinking in all of his features, every line that cut through his torso, the purposeful sway of his arms, his full lips as they drew back to reveal his smile, white against pink, his tanned skin shining, perfect and unblemished.

Their arms reached out in unison, drawing each other close. Trevelyan lifted his left hand to grasp Dorian’s, and Dorian couldn’t help but notice that the Mark was absent, his palm finally free of the green glow; the emerald wall that had been placed between them finally vanished.

“You’re here. I’ve been waiting for you.” Trevelyan whispered.

“As have I.” Their lips met, their kiss as tranquil and blinding as the world that surrounded them. Nothing else mattered but the eternity that passed in each other’s embrace. Dorian had lost himself in Gabriel before, but this was true abandon: nothing was held back in this moment. Dorian had spent so much time fighting against hope, but he finally let it grow freely inside of him, filling him, swelling his heart to the point of bursting. 

He felt a sudden chill, cold air cloying his breath. He opened his eyes, startled at the sensation, and found himself standing in the Frostbacks, the Breach hanging over his head, the sky dark and ominous. 

The Herald stared at him, his eyes pained, as Dorian saw the familiar green flicker rise from his hand. Trevelyan turned towards the Breach, his arm still at Dorian’s side, his hand outstretched, an arc shooting from his palm towards the gaping maw.

It responded in kind, twisting ominously at the Herald’s attempt. His face was contorted in agony as he shouted out, his voice piercing through Dorian’s chest. Dorian held on to him, as the Breach opened wider, unleashing the deafening screams of all the horrors that lied beyond, the song of a million demons waiting impatiently for the Fade to tear their world apart. Dorian tried to cover his ears, the noise tearing through him, but nothing was helping. He closed his eyes, bent over in pain, opening them to see the Herald standing, a glowing green beacon against the looming darkness. His eyes shut again, the noise too loud to bear. 

He awoke with a slight start. His surroundings were unfamiliar. He felt a body underneath him, cradling him in its grasp. He turned.

_Trevelyan._

All the memories came rushing back, and he breathed a sigh of relief against his heart, which beat furiously in his chest. He looked around the cabin. The pale light of first dawn had just begun to creep through the windows. 

Trevelyan stirred, his eyes opening ever so slightly. 

“What’s wrong?” He uttered, his voice even more gravelly than usual as sleep clung to his throat. 

“Nothing. Just a dream.” Dorian responded, inexplicably frozen. Trevelyan’s arm pulled him back, his other hand wrapping around Dorian, locking him in a warm embrace.

“It’s okay,” Trevelyan said, his lips finding the top of Dorian’s head, planting light kisses. “I’m here. It’s still early. Go back to sleep.”

Dorian obliged, his head returning to Trevelyan’s chest, his hand resting on Trevelyan’s shoulder. 

He waited patiently for sleep to take him, and thankfully, it came quickly. 

___

Dorian woke to the sunlight streaming through the windows, still in the same position he had fallen asleep in, half of his body wrapped over Trevelyan, Trevelyan’s arm still tight around Dorian, as sturdy as it had been when he was awake. The Mark flickered gently at his side, and Dorian exhaled with tired frustration.

_Today’s the day._

He lied there, not wanting to surrender to the inevitable fate that the morning brought with it. He felt the fury rise in his throat, threatening to loose a wail from his lips. _Why this? Why Trevelyan? What purpose could the Maker have in forcing a Mark upon the hand of someone like Gabriel?_

Dorian cursed the world outside the doors of the cabin for having the gall to even exist. He huffed, the air traveling across Trevelyan’s chest. It roused him. 

_Kaffas, Pavus. Couldn’t let the man sleep; enjoy what little he might have left?_

Trevelyan snorted, then moaned with his mouth closed, as his neck rolled his head toward Dorian. His eyes slanted open, looking darker than the clouds that haunted Dorian’s earlier dream. Once he gathered what he was looking at, the darkness vanished in the wake of the smile that spread across his face. 

“Morning, sunshine.” Trevelyan’s gravelly voice vibrated through Dorian. _Incredible_ , Dorian thought, _that his voice could be any sexier._ Dorian dedicated himself to keeping Trevelyan’s mind distracted from the destiny he would be forced to face shortly. 

“Good morning,” Dorian purred, his face reaching up to Trevelyan, their lips locking in a morning greeting. Trevelyan pulled back, stretching himself out, a growl escaping his slightly parted lips. Dorian felt the muscles tighten against him, and lust stirred deep within him. Trevelyan’s body went limp for a moment, reveling in the warmth of the bed, before he grabbed Dorian, pulling him on top of his body, and reaching up to greet his lips.

“Maker. No one should look that good, just woken up.” Trevelyan murmured.

“Maybe no one should, but I do.” Dorian smiled down. Trevelyan wrapped his arms around Dorian, and spun him over, pinning him to the bed. Dorian felt Trevelyan’s cock, warm and thick against his body. 

“Would it be too much to hope for another round?” He purred underneath his breath, his lips tracing the outline of Dorian’s jaw. 

“I’d very much like that,” Dorian responded. “However, I’m a bit sore. Unless you want me walking like I’d been riding a horse for the past week. Not that there’s much of a difference – between you and a horse, that is.” Dorian chuckled lightly. He felt Trevelyan’s teeth sink into his shoulder playfully.

“Don’t be silly,” Trevelyan’s voice lilted playfully. “I’m more than amenable to taking you, instead.”

Dorian perked up instantaneously at the suggestion. He pushed hard against Trevelyan, flipping him over onto his back. Dorian moved his legs in between Trevelyan’s, and pushed Trevelyan’s legs back as he moved forward, his cock pressing gently against Trevelyan’s hole. 

“Really, now?” He lurched his hips forward, and Trevelyan’s head leaned back, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. 

“How could I say no?” Trevelyan said, his arms wrapping up around Dorian’s shoulders. “You’re rather impressive.”

“As if that was ever a question. Regardless, coming from you, that’s quite high praise.” Dorian pushed again, feeling the warmth of Trevelyan against the head of his cock.

“I may be bigger, but not by much.” 

“Flattery,” Dorian said, pushing Trevelyan’s legs further, “will get you everywhere.” He rested his shoulders against the back of Trevelyan’s legs, testing his flexibility. He leaned in to kiss Trevelyan. 

A knock on the door interrupted the pair. 

_Maker take whoever is behind that fucking door._

“Herald,” Josephine’s voice called out. Dorian began plotting his revenge the moment he identified her voice. “May I enter?” Dorian stared down at Trevelyan, looking for a cue. 

“It’s fine,” Trevelyan whispered. He pulled Dorian close, and kissed him gently. His legs slid down. He turned his head. “Come on in, Josephine.”

Dorian grabbed for the covers behind him, and slid off Trevelyan, into the space next to him. Trevelyan chuckled as the door opened. _Ass!_ However much Dorian may or may not have cared about anyone’s opinion of him, he certainly wasn’t looking to court controversy. The sight of his bare ass in the air, his body pressed in between the Herald of Andraste’s legs might be a bit much, even for someone as diplomatic as Josephine.

He heard the delicate footfalls making their way across the cabin floor, and another pair behind them. Dorian wondered who the surprise guest might be. Dorian caught a glimpse of fire-red hair behind Josephine. _Leliana._ So they all probably already knew that he was here. _Wonderful._

“Herald,” Josephine greeted him with a polite curtsy. “Master Pavus.” She bowed her head politely at Dorian, who returned the gesture as he shot daggers at her with his eyes. “The mages and the Templars are making their final preparations to assault the Breach. They should be ready shortly. We would like to begin the mission as soon as possible.”

“I’m glad that everyone is so eager.” Trevelyan said, slipping into his assumed role. 

“Yes, it is very encouraging. However, this plan does require your presence.”

“Ah yes, the Mark.” He rubbed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. 

“Yes, well…” Josephine paused for a moment, considering her words.

“Josie is trying to say that you need to get out of your bed.” Leliana laughed from behind them. Dorian noticed that she carried a bundle of cloth in her arms.

“I gathered as much. I’m just trying to prolong the inevitable.” He stared off into the distance. Josephine shifted, uncomfortable with what the Herald’s words suggested. Leliana looked on solemnly. Dorian wanted to roll back over and pretend that none of this was actually happening. Trevelyan’s mouth opened, and words came out, hollow and empty, “I’m getting up. I’ll be ready shortly.”

“Thank you, your Grace.” Josephine said. “I will be sure to inform the other members of the Inquisition. Before we leave, however,” she turned towards Leliana, “we wanted to present you with these robes. Today is a momentous occasion in Thedas’ history. I know you’d prefer to eschew any formalities, but it is important that we keep up appearances.”

“Regardless of the possible outcome?” He deadpanned.

“You will perform admirably, and I cannot wait to personally congratulate you when you return to Haven later today.” Her voice was certain, sure. _Practiced_ , Dorian though.

“Josie’s right. You’ll survive, if only because she wants you to so badly. All those letters she sends to the nobility will sound much more impressive if you seal the Breach and live.” Leliana joked in her light Orlesian lilt, as she tried to find a place to place the Herald’s new robes, her eyes wandering over the trail of clothes that lead their way to the bed. 

“We’ll be waiting for you in the War Room. Please, prepare yourself and join us as soon as you are ready.” Josephine turned to leave, but stopped short. “Dorian,” she called over her shoulder, turning back to the bed. Dorian bristled at the acknowledgement. “Were you planning on assisting the Herald in sealing the Breach? I understand that you are quite the talented mage.” _Buttering me up like one of your overstuffed nobles, Josephine?_ “Your help would certainly be appreciated.”

“Well, no one had invited me up until this moment, which I suppose was just a gross oversight on the part of the leadership -“ Dorian felt the Herald elbow him gently in the side, “- but I suppose I could help.”

“Excellent. You are welcome to join us in the War Room as well. See you both shortly.” She turned to leave. Leliana stole a glance at the pair, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth, as if she wanted to say something, but thought the better of it, and she followed Josephine out the door, closing it behind her.

The Herald sighed, long and exaggerated, blowing the air out of his rounded lips. He looked around the room, before finding his way back to Dorian, who he pulled into his arms. 

“Are you going to be alright?” Dorian asked. 

“I’ll survive.” Trevelyan smiled. “You want to know what the worst thing about all this is?”

“What’s that?”

“We don’t have time for a second round.” He frowned comically.

Dorian laughed. “All the more reason for you to make it through this endeavor.” He kissed Trevelyan gently, savoring what few moments they had left together in their little cocoon of bliss.

“I’m glad you’re coming. You’ve been such a great help already.”

“I’m sure the Inquisition will find some way to repay me for my service.”

“I’m not speaking on behalf of the Inquisition, Dorian. I meant that you’ve helped me.” He said, his voice earnest and kind. Dorian felt that increasingly familiar warmth in his chest.

“Then you can repay me by living.” Dorian kissed him one last time. “Come on, time to get up. I’ll not have Josephine march herself back down here to drag you out of bed.” 

Trevelyan groaned, and stretched his body out again. He rolled over, throwing the covers off himself, sliding his legs off the floor. He stood up, the sunlight dancing across his glorious body, and he looked back at Dorian.

“Thank you.” He murmured. 

“Of course.” Dorian responded in kind, staring at Trevelyan dreamily as he moved about the cabin, preparing for the day. Dorian picked himself up, and started to get dressed, his mind wandering aimlessly, back to the dream the night before, to the white sand and crystalline sea, the warm breeze, the sea salt. The hope welled up in his chest, and for once, he didn’t try to stop it.

_Maybe there is something to hope for, after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How does Dorian get his clothes on? Magic. Because who knows how all those buckles work.
> 
> Also, Trevelyan and Dorian? Hung as fuck. Woo. The magic of writing your own story.
> 
> This chapter ended up being SO LONG. I felt like I owed it for making y'all read like, 47,000 words before I really got to the smut. 
> 
> Thanks for all the love, everyone. Finals are killing my soul, and every little kudos counts. I'm not asking for more comments, but I love reading them.


	11. The Herald and the Breach

Trevelyan walked near the front of their small group, his robes billowing in the cold breeze that whipped through the Frostbacks. He stood tall against the weight of the Breach, which would hopefully no longer be hanging overhead but for a few moments longer. Dorian couldn’t help but wonder how much coin Josephine had sunk into outfitting the Herald for this monumental undertaking – his leather cloak was lined with beautiful white fur, handing down at his sides. His emerald green robes bled out from underneath the cloak, dancing in the wind, the gilded lining glinting off the soft light of the day. His hair was tied in its customary topknot, but even more neatly than usual; Vivienne had dedicated her time in the War Room to combing his hair properly, putting it up in a taut bun with an intricate twist. 

The members of the Inner Circle who had chosen to come along to participate in or watch the sealing of the Breach marched at the front of the line, preceded only by a small contingent of Inquisition solders. Cullen walked alongside the Herald, the black and red colors he favored a stark contrast to the Herald’s vestments, but his posture was equally severe. Cassandra walked alongside Vivienne at the front of the line, two women who respected the other in spite of the fact that they couldn’t have been more different – Cassandra, having abandoned her intended role as Nevarran royalty to serve the Chantry and the people, and Vivienne, having exceeded hers as a Chantry mage to serve the Orlesian Court, and more importantly, herself.

Solas marched behind the Herald, in the ragged robes and furs that he always wore, his feet bare even in the snow. Dorian rolled his eyes at the elf’s obstinate ways. _Surely, the Elven Pantheon would not be dishonored if Solas were to put on a pair of boots._ Blackwall walked further away, back near the troops that followed behind, the same dour expression carved on to his face. Dorian wondered if all Grey Wardens were so bloody pleasant. If the rumors he’d heard about the Wardens all being criminals were true, then maybe the taint of the Blight made the regret for their prior lives weigh down upon them heavier. 

Behind them, the troops marched in relative silence. Members of the Inquisition’s forces punctuated the groups of mages and Templars, who marched in imperfect lines, small clusters of two or three members of each group ruining what would have been a beautiful double-file formation. Surely, there were more pressing concerns than maintaining a proper marching order.

Dorian thought of catching up to Solas, or falling back to Blackwall, for some last minute conversation, but he couldn’t think of anything worth conversing about. So he turned his head forward, rededicating himself to their march.

He caught Trevelyan’s head moving, turning to gaze over his shoulder, a troubled look on his face, as he stared back at the troops that marched behind him. Dorian wondered what he was looking for. _A way out?_ Trevelyan’s gaze wandered, his eyes sweeping over Dorian. Trevelyan’s eyes locked on Dorian’s, and his mouth pulled up in a weak attempt at a smile. Dorian returned the favor with a gentle raise of his eyebrows. Trevelyan nodded politely, and turned back, his head tilted up towards the Breach. 

_Onwards and upwards towards the inevitable._

___

The Herald stood squarely beneath the Breach, in the center of the ruins of the former Temple of Sacred Ashes, his head cast downward, no longer willing to look up at the mouth of the heavens that hung over his head. 

_Who could blame him?_

The Lady Seeker stood nearby. Blackwall maintained some distance, as he was not integral to the plan – just there to support a man that he truly believed in. Dorian’s opinion of Blackwall may not have been entirely positive, but that mattered little – he was fiercely loyal to Trevelyan, who had dedicated resources to insuring the return of several Grey Warden artifacts to Blackwall’s hands. 

Solas was conferring with Fiona and some of the mages, and Cullen was doing the same with Barris and the Templars. Dorian and Vivienne had already assumed their positions. The mages comprised the tier closest to the Herald, pushing their magic into him, while the Templars, composing the higher tier, reached up and around the Breach, pulling it down to the Herald’s grasp. Of course, Fiona had an objection to the very necessary logistics. _What will stop the Templars from killing my people from behind the moment the Breach is sealed?_ Dorian scoffed at her complaints. _If only they’d kill you, the mages would be leagues better off._

“Are you prepared, my dear?” Vivienne turned to Dorian. 

“With a coy insult? No, Madame, but I am ready to assist the Herald.” 

“I sincerely hope so. Considering, by my estimation, you did not get much sleep last night.”

 _She was as transparent as her Fade Cloak spell._ “Looking to chastise me like some ancient Chantry sister for spending an evening with the Herald? You’re about the right age.”

“Just disappointed, my dear, that you failed to heed my advice.” She looked at him, her face frozen in perpetuity. 

“The Herald doesn’t need you looking after every decision he makes, Vivienne, but again, I appreciate your perverse interest in both our affairs.” Dorian said lightly, turning back to the scene below.

“Are they ‘our’ affairs already, darling? Or was your little dalliance just a distraction from the Herald’s greater purpose?”

The words cut like knives, but Dorian was expected them. He leaned in towards her. “I’ll be sure to keep you apprised of any developments. Maybe next time, you can watch.”

He turned back, finished with the conversation. Vivienne looked on for a moment longer, before joining him, their eyes on the Herald. Everything appeared to be in order. It was about to begin.

___

 

Solas and Cullen screamed orders at their respective charges, even though there was little point in wasting their breath. The mages bowed their heads, and dug their staves into the ground in front of them, the Fade whirling around them in a violent vortex, channeling forward into the Herald. The Templars did the same with their swords, their nullifications reaching into the sky, like an invisible dome, pushing the Breach downward. Dorian watched as the Herald lifted his hand towards the heavens; the glow of the Mark brighter than it had ever been before with the power of the mages flowing freely into the Herald. It continued to shine, brighter and brighter, its luminescence blinking away momentarily as a bolt of green energy burst into the sky, connecting with the Breach. The maw roared as the Herald stood strong against the weight of his effort. 

The mages and Templars redoubled their efforts, and Dorian noticed a shift. The Breach began to spiral around, slowly spinning, its outer edges beginning to dissipate, as the Breach began to descend, inching closer to the ground. It was working. The Breach kept shrinking and falling, but the Herald seemed nearly overcome. He fell to one knee, his arm shaking violently against the strain, his hand seemingly reaching further and further towards the Breach. _Just a little bit more._

He saw Trevelyan, his eyes narrowed, his teeth gnashing in pain. Dorian heard the scream rip from his lips. _You can’t let him fail, Pavus._ He pushed all of himself out to the Herald, his body failing against his exertion. His legs felt like they were about to give out, his fingers going numb, barely capable of holding on to his staff. Out of the periphery of his eyes, he saw Vivienne’s head turn towards him, her lips parted in shock. _Focus on what’s important, Pavus, not the Ice Queen next to you._

He saw the Herald’s arm begin to steady, as the Breach roared once more, before it folded in on itself and collapsed, shining brightly in its dying gasps, before shooting down through the arc of energy that connected it and the Herald, slamming itself with Force into the Herald’s hand. The Herald fell back into the ground, his arm convulsing at his side. Dorian couldn’t be bothered to look up to make sure that the Breach was, in fact sealed. He was too focused on Trevelyan, who regained control of his arm for long enough to prop himself up. 

The mages and the Templars were cheering. _The Breach is closed, thank the Maker._ The sound stirred Dorian, helping to bring him back, the sensation returning to his body. Vivienne bent down, grabbing Dorian, helping him to his feet. He breathed, his breath ragged. He lurched forward to grab on to the railing, his head tilted downward, bile rising in his stomach. The celebration around him was deafening, and it certainly wasn’t helping to settle the bile. _Trevelyan._ Dorian looked up. Trevelyan was on his knees, his right hand clasping his left arm, the Mark still shining brilliantly. Solas and the Seeker were at his side, Cullen and Blackwall standing a few paces back.

Dorian gathered himself, swallowing hard, then threw himself over the railing, landing on the ground below, his knees dipping slightly before he teetered to the side. He steadied himself, and quickly moved towards the Herald’s position.

“What’s wrong?” Dorian sputtered, planting his staff at his side, leaning his weight upon it a little too heavily, his stomach swirling violently.

“I am not certain,” Solas muttered, a slight tinge of nervousness penetrating his normally calm voice. Dorian looked at the Herald, whose hand was shaking violently, as the Mark flickered and sputtered erratically. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Trevelyan said, his breath shallow, his voice weak. He looked up at Cassandra, and his eyes were wide, yet heavy, like a person who hasn’t slept in days but was completely awake. “Help me up, please.” Cassandra grabbed the Herald by the arm, and helped steady him on his feet. He maintained his balance well enough, but his hand was still shaking, the Mark still shining angrily. He pulled his arm out of his cloak, letting it hang by his side, the thick leather covering the light of the Mark well enough. He closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply in an attempt to steady his breath. 

“Herald, do not push yourself. We have succeeded in sealing the Breach. There is no point in straining yourself unnecessarily,” Cassandra pleaded.

“Get me back to Haven.” Trevelyan said. Cassandra looked over to Cullen and Blackwall, who nodded and turned to fetch the mages and Templars. Vivienne had approached with a small group of Inquisition soldiers. Dorian straightened himself, his stomach having settled slightly, and his limbs feeling sturdier. Trevelyan began to move to make his way back to Haven as the soldiers closed in around him, and he caught Dorian’s eye. He motioned to Dorian, and Dorian moved quickly to his side.

“Don’t try something like that again.” He said, his voice serious and strained. 

“What are you talking about?” Dorian asked, surprised. 

“I know how your magic feels. I felt that rush come towards me, singing above the rest. You shouldn’t be risking yourself for me, like this.” Trevelyan began to walk faster, and Dorian picked up his pace. 

“I couldn’t let you bloody well fail. What would you have me do?” Dorian said, anger rising in his voice. _Ass!_

Trevelyan looked over at him, his wide eyes startled, then apologetic. “I don’t want you getting hurt on behalf of me. I appreciate your help, really, I do. But please, don’t do something like that again. I’m not telling you, I’m just asking, as politely as I can muster right now.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. _He almost dies, and he’s still this fucking stubborn._ Dorian had half a mind to tear into Trevelyan – he had survived after all, surely he could withstand a tirade – but Dorian saw the sickly green light flickering underneath Trevelyan’s cloak, and realized that the Herald wasn’t quite out of the woods yet.

“You’re lucky that I have more tact than to cause a scene after your impressive victory.”

“I thought you were taking the credit for that?” Trevelyan chuckled weakly.

“You have awful comedic timing.” Dorian kept up with Trevelyan, who was hurriedly making his way down the mountain, determined to get back to the safety of Haven and steal away to his cabin. 

“Thank the Maker I have other attributes you find pleasing. I…” His right arm shot across his chest, underneath his cloak, to his left arm, grabbing it tightly, his teeth clenched. 

“Maker, how much pain are you in?” Dorian asked, leaning towards Trevelyan, who winced and whimpered lightly.

“I need to get back to Haven,” he muttered, his voice soaked in anxiety.

“Come then. The barbs and banter can wait until later.” 

___

 

The Herald returned to Haven safely enough, pulling himself together long enough to make a rousing, short speech to the troops gathered outside of the gates of Haven. 

_The Breach has been sealed, through the combined efforts of our allies. All Thedas owes its safety to those who have expended their blood and sweat for this most noble of causes. I am humbled by each of your individual contributions to the greater good, and I bow before the service every one of you has performed. Our success would not have been possible without all of you, working together._

He bowed respectfully at the crowd. Dorian saw his lips twitching, his left hand still tucked safely underneath his cloak.

 _Our mission does not end here. The Inquisition still has much to accomplish. But tonight, I encourage you to forget about the work that awaits us tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate our victory!_

The crowd erupted into cheers and hollers, screaming joyfully at having flown in the face of the odds and achieving the impossible. Dorian could have sworn he saw some of the Templars and mages clapping each other on the shoulder. The mood was downright congenial. Even Fiona was smiling, as she shook hands with Ser Barris, congratulating him.

The Herald, having managed to make it through the speech without breaking down, turned and darted through the gate and made his way to his cabin, with Solas and Cassandra in tow. They barricaded themselves behind the door, several Inquisition guards stationed outside. He thought better than to try and force his way into the cabin, instead returning to his little hovel with his uncomfortable cot. 

He managed to take his boots off before he flopped down, rolling around uncomfortably. _Trevelyan’s bed has spoiled you._ It wasn’t just the mattress that Dorian missed; he missed Trevelyan’s arms around him, pulling him down to sleep with him.

Luckily, Dorian was tired, having expended so much energy the night before and in sealing the Breach. He didn’t need to miss Trevelyan for much longer before he drifted off.

___

 

The night was clear and beautiful, the Breach no longer marring the beauty of the moon with its omnipresent green light. If the sky of Haven had been littered with stars beforehand, they had certainly grown exponentially without the shine of the Breach to compete against. Dorian stared up at the sky, fresh and new, marveling at its simple beauty. 

Haven was loud with the swell of celebration that burst forth from every door and poured out of every window. The delightful cacophony of ten different lutes scattered throughout the small village, all playing a different song, accompanied by the light patter of feet dancing around in time, was a far cry from anything Dorian had experienced in Haven thus far. For the first time in months, these people had a reason to celebrate, instead of rushing about with a glum sense of purpose, burdened by the weight of impending doom. It only stood to reason that they should be commemorating their success, and heartily, at that. 

The Tavern had been bustling all night, packed to the brim with Inquisition forces, mages, and Templars, all clamoring for a drink and conversation, even if that conversation was limited to the unintelligible cheers of victory. Thankfully Josephine, in all her delightful optimism, had managed to procure enough liquor in anticipation of the revelry. Even had they not succeeded, there would have been more than enough ale, wine, and spirits to drown all their sorrows. 

Surprisingly, Dorian had been on the receiving end of some congratulatory handshakes and back pats from a wide-ranging cast of characters – mostly Leliana’s agents, who had taken a shine to him after Dorian had tutored them on some additional tricks and traps that might be of use out in the field. Occasionally, a Circle mage would come up and bow respectfully to him, thanking him for his service. A gaggle of young mages, no older than their late teens, had even be so bold as to ask him to join them for a meal and a drink at some point in the near future, so that they might discuss magical theory, giggling at the perceived rebellion of debating their craft with _a magister from Tevinter_. Dorian smiled politely and thanked them for the offer, silently betting that they wanted to get their grubby little hands on the vault of magical riches that lay within the banks of Dorian’s mind. As he moved past the group, he caught the eye of one of their members, an elf, whose auburn hair was twisted into several braids that formed a loose bun at the back of his head. His wide, blue eyes caught Dorian’s, and he turned away quickly, cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment. Dorian chuckled to himself. 

Even a few Templars had been bold enough to congratulate Dorian, slamming their fists to their chests as a sign of respect for the Tevinter magister who might not be as awful as they’d all been told. Dorian made some joke about how, in spite of the colorful southern fairy tales about mages of the Imperium, he had never personally enchanted someone from their bed in the middle of the night to participate in debauchery and blood sacrifices, which got varying amounts of laughter, before Dorian bid the group a good evening and fled into the night, still a little wary of the anti-arcane warriors. 

Flissa had been kind enough to slip Dorian a bottle of whiskey at the Tavern, “So you won’t have to wait every time you need to be topped off!” she said, with a smile, a wink, and an errant hiccup. Dorian laughed heartily at the tipsy barmaid, gently reminding her not to get too drunk, or else she’d be the drunkard they were dragging out of the Tavern that evening. She laughed, a sonorous giggle, like the song of a bird in the early morning, and leaned forward to grab his arm to steady herself. She stood up straight and smiled at Dorian again, then shooed him away so that she could get back to her vital work.

Dorian had decided to move away from the bulk of the revelry. He wasn’t quite in the mood to throw caution to the wind and celebrate their victory, considering that Trevelyan’s fate was still unknown to him. He hadn’t seen the Seeker or Solas since they’d locked themselves behind the door of Trevelyan’s cabin, surely tending to the burning Mark on his hand. Dorian wondered how much punishment one man was expected to take, his memory flashing back to the bolt of energy that shot into the Herald as the Breach came crashing to a violent close. The Mark was more than enough punishment on its own – did he really need it causing him any more pain than it already did?

He sat himself cross-legged upon the catapult at the far end of Haven, looking up to the empty sky that had been occupied by the Breach. Dorian wondered how long their victory would last, what with the Elder One and his henchmen lurking just beyond the borders of Haven. Surely he wouldn’t take the closure of the Breach lying down, if he’d truly been the one behind it opening in the first place. How long would the Inquisition have to wait until he showed his face? Would the Inquisition be able to stand against him?

“Dorian,” he heard the stern female voice over his shoulder, as he turned to greet its owner.

“Lady Cassandra. Come to share a drink?” He shook his bottle at her.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid.” She smiled solemnly. “The Herald asked me to update you on his condition.” Dorian’s face must have twisted into some disgusting expression of emotion, as Cassandra lifted her hands up as a sign of reassurance. “He is fine, thank the Maker. The Mark is still reacting, but it has begun to subside.”

“But we’re still none the wiser as to what actually happened?”

“Solas believes that the Mark may have absorbed some of the energy of the Breach.” She stared out over glow of Haven, before turning her gaze back to Dorian. “When the Templars reached up to pull the Breach down, the magic of the Breach could not escape. Because the Mark was channeling so much magical energy, the Breach was drawn to its power, and so it forced its way down into the Mark, having nowhere else to go.” Dorian wondered how elaborate Solas’ description of this phenomenon had been, and how much had been lost in translation when he’d conveyed the information to Cassandra. “Worse still, Solas believes that the energy from either group individually would have been sufficient to seal the Breach, and that the combined efforts at sealing the Breach are what caused it to react as it did.”

“Trevelyan must have loved hearing that.”

“The Herald was not pleased.” She corrected Dorian’s overfamiliarity with Trevelyan’s last name. “But even had he known what would happen, I highly doubt that he would have done anything differently.”

“Too proud to admit that he was wrong.” Dorian rolled his eyes at the Trevelyan that lurked in his mind, whose face had etched itself into obstinate lines.

“It is not that simple, Dorian. The Herald was motivated by more than his obligation to close the Breach by whatever means necessary. As unsure as he might have been of his own faculties, he would never have let either group fall victim to their circumstances. Surely, it would be easy for him to attribute his plan to save both the mages and the Templars to his own uncertainty, but it was more than that. The Herald has a noble heart. He would not have let either side suffer without doing all he could to prevent it.”

Dorian considered her words for a moment. “He said that he didn’t know why he was picked by the Maker, if he had even been picked at all. It doesn’t seem like you have any trepidation about whether he was chosen or not.”

“When he first awoke in Haven, after the explosion at the Conclave, I was determined to beat the answers out of him, which I’m sure comes as no surprise. But he seemed genuinely disturbed by what Leliana and I had told him, and when I asked him for his aid in sealing the Breach, he offered himself without reservation. Sure, he is flippant from time to time, and his diplomacy leaves much to be desired – not that I am one to criticize – but he has boldly met every challenge that has been placed in his path. I cannot say that I have agreed with all of his decisions, but I respect that he has the courage to make them. He is learning to listen more, to consider alternate ideas and perspectives, even if he would give himself little credit for his efforts.”

“A little humility never hurt anyone. Not that I would know.” Dorian quipped. Cassandra rolled her eyes and made a noise of disgust. Dorian found that little idiosyncrasy delightful.

“We would not have succeeded without his aid and his decisiveness. He has become a leader, in spite of himself. As little as I might care for political maneuvering, even I am aware that the Inquisition now finds itself at a crossroads. We have managed to bring the war between the rebel mages and the Templars to a ceasefire, and we have used that alliance to seal the Breach.”

“The naysayers cannot deny what we’ve accomplished. So, forgive my ignorance of southern politics, if you will, where exactly does that leave us?”

“We must win the support of the nobility, but there is no guarantee that will be easy. Either way, the Inquisition has a mission that must be accomplished, but what remains to be seen is what we will carve out of whatever influence we now possess.”

“I’m sure that Josephine and Leliana have a few ideas.”

“More than a few, most of which I have no interest in hearing. We all agree, however, that the Inquisition needs a leader. Josephine and Leliana believe that it will bolster our credibility with the nobility. An Inquisitor, supported by a hierarchy underneath him, is something that the nobles understand, and can be persuaded to respect.”

“And what do you believe, Lady Seeker?”

“I…” she paused for a moment, considering her words, her brow furrowed in the struggle. “I believe that the Herald has been sent by the Maker, and thus, is the only proper choice for the position. Uniting underneath him will bring a clarity of purpose to the Inquisition’s forces. A true leader can channel the ideals of a movement and forge those ideals into action. The Herald has already accomplished this, and the troops respect and admire him for it.”

“So the title is less of a change and more of a formality? You know how much our Herald loves those.”

Cassandra chuckled lightly with her mouth closed. “Thankfully, he tolerates them.” They stared out into the sky for a moment in silence. Dorian was surprised at how much he liked Cassandra, considering her initial treatment of him was suspicious, to say the least. She was, however, direct in her dealings and talented with a blade, not to mention that she tolerated his good-natured teasing of her serious nature.

“I am normally not one for lascivious gossip,” she broke the silence. _And here we go._ “But I am aware that you and the Herald have gotten close.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” She made her disgusted noise.

“I’m not trying to chastise you, or pry into your affairs. Just to offer some advice.”

“I know how to pleasure a man, Cassandra, I’ve been doing it for years now.” Another disgusted noise. _Maybe I can beat my record._

“The Herald has a strong sense of duty, not only to the Inquisition, but to the people of Thedas as a whole. It is not easy, to stand by the side of someone with such purpose. I stood as the Right Hand of the Divine for many years, and she was a true friend, but I cannot pretend it was not trying, at times. I tried my best to help shoulder the burden, but there were some that she had to carry alone.” Her voice trailed off, wistful, as she gazed into the distance.

Dorian was startled by the frank, emotional admission. The Lady Seeker was an unyielding as the mountains that surrounded them in Haven, and Dorian was impressed to see this side of her. It wasn’t exactly soft, but it was something.

“Thank you, Cassandra.”

“Certainly.” She nodded. “You should go to see him. When I left, he was still in his cabin.”

“I don’t want to bother him. He needs the rest.”

“He would like to see you. He was swearing profusely about you over-exerting yourself needlessly. It would do him good to put his mind at ease.”

“He’s an ass. But I suppose I will pay him a visit. Thank you again, Cassandra.”

“You are welcome, Dorian. Have a good evening.”

____

The Herald was not in his cabin, of course. _Bloody idiot, probably running around Haven like he didn’t just close a giant magical hole in the sky_. Dorian turned around, looking to see if he could find anyone who might be able to point him in the right direction, but alas, everyone was occupied with the revelry.

Dorian began to walk towards the Tavern, not really knowing where else to turn. He heard what sounded like a puff of air next to him, and turned instinctively at the noise, startled.

“He’s at the Chantry.”

“Maker, Cole!” Dorian yelped, before dropping his voice down to a more respectable pitch. “You need to figure out a way to walk up to people that doesn’t frighten them to death!” 

“I’m not here to hurt, I’m here to help.” Cole said, his voice as distant as the stars in the sky. Dorian began to walk towards the Chantry.

“I’ve watched you do both. Still not convinced you aren’t trying to do the former to me.”

“Shaking, shuddering, shattering inside. The Mark, too bright to see behind, but the pain, so palpable and potent.” Cole’s voice changed, like a dream that had suddenly become intent and focused.

“It’s that bad, is it?” Dorian asked, grimly.

“He stands strong against the sting.” 

“Of course he is.” Cassandra’s words flashed in Dorian’s mind. The Mark was the Herald’s burden, one that Dorian could never shoulder. He sighed heavily. “Thank you, Cole. I’ll see you later.”

“Maybe,” he responded, his voice far beyond the Frostbacks again.

Dorian quickened his pace, eager to make it to the Chantry and chew Trevelyan’s ear off for being up and about. The sturdy building crept into view, and lo and behold, Trevelyan, standing near a fire that burned in the small encampment in front of the Chantry’s doors. His hair blew in the evening wind, shining opalescent as it reflected the light of the moon. His hand rested at his side, the Mark covered by a fingerless glove. He didn’t appear to be drinking any liquor, thankfully. He stared out at the Frostbacks, his face light, calm. _Probably admiring his handiwork._

He was staring so intently at the empty skies that he didn’t notice Dorian, who worked his way up to the spot where Trevelyan was standing. As he edged up behind Trevelyan, he looked down at his left hand. He could just make out the tiny rays of green light that leaked out of the thick leather glove, and noticed the slight tremor that still shook his hand. 

“Are you still in pain?” Dorian asked gently. Trevelyan turned gently, and smiled at the recognition of Dorian’s face. 

“Nothing I can’t manage. Besides, I need to be out here. They need to see me,” his right hand waved errantly over Haven, “to know that I’m alive, and the Inquisition carries on.” 

“Their needs do not trump your own. You should be getting your rest. They can make it through one night of drunken revelry without you. I’m sure there will be many more to come.”

“That concerned with my well-being?” Trevelyan said, a chuckle rising from his lips.

“Not as much as the Lady Seeker and Solas. I can’t begin to imagine how fun those few hours in your cabin were.” Dorian remarked.

“‘It appears as though there is nothing I can do.’” Trevelyan mimicked the elf’s cool tone. “Solas’ bedside manner leaves much to be desired. Especially when compared to yours.” His voice had trailed off into wickedness.

“I appreciate your effort to distract me from my line of questioning, but unfortunately, I am not so easily dissuaded.” Dorian said, calm as could be, beating down the heat that grasped at his chest. “What happened in the cabin?”

Trevelyan’s eyes narrowed, and he exhaled through his nose, annoyed that he hadn’t been able to stifle Dorian. “I walked in, I lied down, Solas poked at me, which didn’t make me feel any better or worse, Cassandra asked him some questions, they encouraged me to fall asleep, but I couldn’t, so I just lied there while Solas continued his work. Eventually, I managed to calm myself, the Mark began to dim, and the spasms became tolerable. They both left shortly thereafter, convinced that I wasn’t in any immediate danger.”

“At which point you decided to make your way out here. Has Cassandra seen you yet? I’m pretty sure she’d drag you back to your cabin by your neck.” 

“She was actually the one who suggested I get some fresh air. Like I said, when I calmed down, the Mark seemed to respond in kind.”

“Alright, then. As long as you aren’t actively attempting to get yourself killed, there’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

Trevelyan smiled, then stared out at the sky. “It’s really gone. It seems so unbelievable to me that we actually succeeded.” 

“I expect the Chantry will be riding in any second now, ready to embrace you with open arms, anoint you fully, and drag you on a tour across Thedas to inspire the masses with your tale.”

“I doubt they can even send a letter congratulating us on our efforts without first appointing a new Divine.”

“True, and how many more months of endless debate will that take?”

“Knowing the Chantry? It’s hard to say, but I’d put my money on at least another six, at the very least.”

“If the way you played Wicked Grace that day we stepped through time is any indication, I’m not sure I’d trust your wager.” Dorian teased.

“That was just money. My other gambles have paid off.” Trevelyan said with a cool confidence.

“True enough. The mages and the Templars, not at each other’s throats? No one would have taken that bet. But I’m forced to give credit where credit is due.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that gamble, I was thinking about last night. I wasn’t sure how you’d respond when I kissed you.” A smile spread slowly across his lips, his eyes warm, locked on Dorian. “I am glad your response was favorable, though.”

“Beginner’s luck, I’m afraid.” Trevelyan’s face dropped. “I’m joking! _I’m joking!_ ” Dorian laughed, as the Herald smiled back at him. “It certainly wasn’t the worst evening I’ve had since I’ve been here.” Trevelyan’s face widened with exaggerated shock.

“Not the worst? Then I’ll have to do better next time.”

“Oh, will you now? Determined to make round two a real winner?”

“I wasn’t planning on just round two, you know. That is, if you can handle more than round two.” His voice dropped to a determined growl, a primal utterance of lust. Something equally base in Dorian responded in kind, twisting his stomach into knots of desire. 

“In one evening? Perish the thought,” Dorian said, his voice awash in mock horror. His eyes turned serious, and his tone dropped down. “I think you’ll find that I’m more than capable of keeping pace with you, however many rounds are in the cards.”

“I accept your challenge.” Trevelyan said, through clenched teeth, his face inches from Dorian’s. “I can’t wait to win, after I fuck you… Ah!” His left hand convulsed at his side, his fingers writhing, his cocky look suddenly transformed into one of anguish. Dorian saw the light under the glove flash brighter, illuminating his fingertips in green. 

“See, you got yourself too excited.” Dorian said, chastising Trevelyan, who clutched at his hand as the glow began to die down. “I’m all for another go, but not while the Mark is still acting up. Maker knows what would happen if you finished like you did last night.” The Mark flared up slightly again, the Herald wincing in response. 

“Stop making me thinking about it!” He grit his teeth. “You’re only making it worse.” His breath was strained. Dorian would normally revel in this – a physical indication of the effect he was having on another man – but in this instance, with something as unpredictable as the Mark? Dorian grabbed Trevelyan’s hands in his own, and felt an overwhelming surge of power, as if the Fade itself were rushing into him. _Well, this is new._ His mind raced in a million different directions, the boundless possibilities clawing at his mind, his inner academic wanting to rifle through all the laws of magical theory that were being broken by one glowing green mark, but he cleared his thoughts to focus on the task at hand.

“What helped you calm down before?”

“You really want to know?” The Herald gripped at his hand, his eyes watering.

“If it will stop your hand from exploding, then yes, I would.” His tone was exasperated and urgent.

“I was in my bed, in so much pain. As I rolled over, I smelled you on the pillow where you slept last night.” Trevelyan smiled. “I thought about you lying there next to me, how warm I felt in the morning with your head pressed against my chest, how peaceful everything was. I haven’t felt so at ease in a long time.”

Dorian could have sworn that he’d been lit aflame, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the power surging from the Mark, or Trevelyan’s innocent confession. _Maker take me_ , Dorian thought. He’d tried to beat it all back, but it just kept springing up, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stop himself. _You’re a fool, you know. Tangling yourself up with the soon-to-be Inquisitor. This will end poorly and you know it!_ He tried all the usual reasons, his mind cycling through them at the speed of a star shooting across the sky, but he couldn’t stop himself. 

“It was…” Dorian trailed off, trying to find a snarky comment to save himself the embarrassment of letting the sentiments that were overtaking him spill out of his lips. “I can’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it.” _Oh, how bloody wonderful Pavus! Would you like to cut your heart out of your chest and present it to him? Like anyone would accept that mangled, blackened mess as a gift!_

His hand began to still, and the energy that had coursed through Dorian began to die down. The green light flickered calmly, losing its harsh edge.

Trevelyan breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Dorian.” 

“Of course.” Dorian couldn’t find any other words to say, after having exposed himself so readily to the Herald. “Now, would you please consider returning to your cabin and getting some rest?”

Trevelyan looked down at the ground for a moment, as if he were a child who’d been caught in a lie, and his eyes flicked back up to Dorian, his face calm, but with some lingering disappointment in his eyes. “You’re probably right.”

“Probably? I believe the word you are groping for is, ‘always.’” 

“No way I can convince you to come with?”

“Tempting, but you and I both know how that will end, and I don’t think your poor hand could take it.”

“I had to try.” Trevelyan smiled at him, before moving in close. He placed his Marked hand under Dorian’s chin, and the rush of energy made Dorian’s head spin, like he was instantaneously inebriated, before Trevelyan’s lips met Dorian’s in a quick kiss. He released Dorian’s face, and Dorian’s eyes rolled back into their proper position, glad to be free of the Mark’s influence. “But I couldn’t leave without that. Goodnight, Dorian.” He turned to walk away.

_Maker, you are entranced. Is it the Mark, or the man wielding it? You ought to pull yourself together, Pavus, or you’ll be a puddle on the floor, and what a load of good you’ll be able to do the Inquisition then._

Dorian breathed in deeply, his eyes closed. Images of the night before littered his mind, and for a moment, he almost regretted not taking Trevelyan up on his offer. He opened his eyes, and saw Trevelyan, frozen in front of him, his head tilted towards the sky in front of Haven. 

_No, not the sky_. Dorian tried to follow his line of sight, but he wasn’t quite sure what he was – _wait, what were all those lights doing, pouring over the mountainside of Haven?_

The bells began to ring, loud and sharp, as the call to arms ripped through the small village, instantaneously quelling the evening’s festivities, and replacing the music and laughter with the screams and cries of Haven’s inhabitants. Trevelyan vanished in a blur of white and blue, the trail heading towards his cabin. 

Dorian mimicked Trevelyan, dissipating into his Fade Step, but moving towards his hovel. He burst through the door, grabbing his staff, and the few potions he had scattered about, which he hastily stuffed into his pockets. He exploded back, a frosty blur against the cool night air, as he tore towards the gates of Haven. The Herald was standing there, Cullen, Leliana, Cassandra, and Josephine by his side.

“Under what banner?” He heard Josephine ask. The other members of the Inner Circle followed one by one, Sera bounding up to Dorian’s side, Varric’s stubby legs hurrying down the stairs as fast as they could carry him. He heard the Bull’s heavy footfalls approaching, the clanging of his heavy armor unlike that of any other member of the Inquisition.

“None.” Cullen responded, his tone grim.

“None?” Josephine asked in shocked disbelief.

Cole appeared alongside Josephine, who jumped at the sight of the boy. _This one never learns._

“It’s him. The Elder One.” His voice had departed from the land of dreams, having veered off to the realm of nightmares. His head turned towards Trevelyan. “He’s very angry with you.”

The Herald bowed his head for a moment, then jerked it back up. He held out his left hand, the green light barely contained. It erupted into flame, burning through the glove that covered it, which quickly dissipated, revealing the Mark, which glowed and hissed violently. Trevelyan raised his hand towards the gate and it flew open. He disappeared into a blur, before anyone was able to stop him. 

They all gave chase to the Herald, running as fast as they could, through the gates of Haven, out into the field that lay in front of the entrance. Trevelyan stood at the edge of the lake, watching the torches stream down the mountain, and gazing up to a peak, where two people stood. A man, clad in armor forged of red lyrium, his scraggly brown hair matted to his head, his skin as pale as the snow, and a woman, her hair pulled back severely against her head, in intricate black robes, brandishing a staff.

“Is that… Samson?!” Cullen spat. 

“Then that must be Calpernia,” Dorian said aloud, to no one in particular, “leader of the Venatori.”

Behind the pair, a black cloud grew ominously. None of the group was prepared for what stepped out.

What resembled a man emerged from the shadows, a good few feet taller than either of his companions. He was cloaked in black, his arms impossibly thin, his fingers long and claw-like. Dorian would have sworn it was a Darkspawn, twisted by the Blight, were it not for the red lyrium that penetrated its skin, coating his chest like some sort of nightmarish ribcage, clawing out his face like the hand of an angry dragon. 

“It can’t be!” Varric shouted. 

“Can’t be what?” Cassandra hollered back, her voice laced with horror.

“That’s Corypheus! But we killed him!”

Dorian looked over the lake at the approaching foes. Red Templars, a wave of scarlet fury, and Venatori mages, clad in black and gold, bore down upon them. They would be at the shoreline in but a few moments. There was no way Haven would survive this assault. The Mark ignited in the Herald’s hand, glowing brighter with each second.

_What a short-lived victory._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I just adore you all to little pieces. I spend too much time writing this and not enough time studying for finals. 
> 
> This chapter came to me so quickly. I finished it in like an hour. The next one will probably be a little harder - two things that are hard to write: battles and sex. Because words never do them justice.
> 
> And, sweet Maker! What's going on with that Mark?
> 
> Also, you're getting Calpernia and Samson, which is how it should have happened in-game regardless of which side you chose, because they're both really interesting villains and development of a dynamic between the two would have been so interesting. SHAME, BIOWARE!


	12. The Last Stand at Haven

The Red Templars and the Venatori, combined in one horrifying wave, would soon be upon them, and the Herald stood, placid, at the shore of the lake. He raised his hand, and the Mark shone with an unparalleled brilliance, impossibly incandescent. Dorian shielded his eyes. 

The lake erupted into a wall of fire, throwing the Red Templars and the Venatori who had been so bold as to cross its frozen waters into the air. Dorian felt the searing heat of the blast, but it was tempered by the Herald’s Barrier, which shielded all of them. Dorian was completely awestruck. 

Their foes dropped from the sky, landing in the now liquid lake, sinking quickly to its bottom, weighed down by the red lyrium and the gilded chains. 

The Herald’s hand dove down toward the ground, and as quickly as the lake had melted, it froze over again, massive crystalline stalagmites tearing through its surface, each containing the body of a Red Templar or a mage. They rose, blooming into giant, horrifying flowers with petals of sharp ice, tearing apart the bodies within, dragging their respective limbs in various directions. Their blood and guts spread throughout the transparent encasements, a violent warning to their comrades who might be brave enough to attempt to cross the lake. 

Everyone was stupefied by what they were witnessing. _This is impossible_ , Dorian thought. _Unless – is this the work of the magic behind the Breach?_ Dorian’s mind was too stupefied to consider how this all further complicated their understanding of the Mark and the power it contained. The Herald stood, not having moved his feet even an inch, staring up at the Elder One, defiant. His hand rose, straight into the air, as a dark cloud formed over the Elder One and his companions. Calpernia drew up a Barrier, and Samson held his sword at the ready.

The Herald brought his fist down, then out, the bolt of lightning cracking like a million whips at once, shooting towards the Elder One, then suddenly diverging to the left, blasting into the Penitent’s Crossing with enough power to make the tiny stone bridge explode. Dorian heard the rocks falling against each other, and the distant cries of Red Templars and Venatori agents confirmed that they were being crushed under the debris. 

The Elder One stood, for a moment, before turning in his robes and dematerializing into the cloud of black smoke, Calpernia and Samson following close behind. 

The Herald glared up until the cloud dissipated completely, then fell to his knees, gasping violently for air. Dorian was paralyzed, but luckily, the Lady Seeker and Solas still had their wits about them.

“What just happened?” Cassandra asked, the horror still clinging to her voice.

“It was the Mark,” the Herald choked out the words. “It was all that power, pent up inside of it. It’s fine. I’m fine.” He stood up, brushing them off, swaying on his legs before Solas grabbed him. The Herald fished in his pocket, yanking out a bottle of liquid that glowed a soft blue. A lyrium potion. 

“Herald! Do you think this is the wisest course of action?” Solas asked, his voice loud and fiery. 

“I need to fight. And the Mark is back to normal, see?” The Herald held out his left hand as proof, as he uncorked the bottle with his right thumb and drank deeply. He was right – the Mark had seemingly returned to its original state, glowing softly, not the brilliant, uncontrollable shine that lit up the night moments before. Solas looked on, displeased. The Lady Seeker remained incapable of wiping the shock off her face. The Herald finished the contents of the bottle, and threw it to the ground, watching it smash violently. 

“This only bought us more time. They are still coming,” he pointed to the mountainside, where sure enough, torches continued to emerge. “We have to fight. Cullen,” he called, “give me a plan. Anything!” 

“Haven is no fortress. If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force. Use everything you can!” He unsheathed his sword, and turned back to the Inquisition forces that had gathered. The mages and the Templars stood by their side, swords and staves at the ready. _Whoever would have dreamed this day would come – the mages and the Templars, fighting side by side._

“Soldiers!” He cried out. “Gather the villagers! Fortify and watch for advance forces! Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!”

Fiona marched forward from the crowd, turning to her charges. “Mages, we stand with the Herald! Provide whatever support you can – keep Barriers on the front lines, and strike when you have an opening. We must protect Haven!” 

Ser Barris turned to his charges, “Templars! Remain focused on our enemies, and use your abilities with caution – do not waste the barriers bestowed upon you by the mages.” He turned to nod at Fiona, who responded in kind, a quiet determination in both their eyes. Dorian gathered that they understood the stakes – if the Inquisition was crushed by the Elder One’s forces, then whatever was left of their respective groups would be back exactly where they had begun: warring, without any foreseeable prospects of peaceful resolution. Maybe the talks had been more effective than Dorian realized. 

He heard the crackle of ice, the Red Templars barreling through the crystal tombs of their dismembered brothers, the Venatori following closely behind. They reached the shoreline, and Dorian watched as the Templars and Inquisition soldiers moved forward to attack, barriers rising around them rapidly, a blessing from the mages.

Dorian looked to his left and saw Bull running forward, his giant axe at the ready. Dorian quickly pulled a Barrier over him, as he dove into the fray, lopping the head off a Venatori mage with one quick swipe of his axe, but not before the mage had dispelled the Barrier that protected him. He continued his charge into the melee, taking an arrow to the shoulder as he tore through a wave of Red Templars, spiraling through the crowd with the grace of someone half his size. 

Sera smashed a bottle into her chest, briefly engulfing herself in flames, as she leapt across the field, delivering a hail of arrows with each spiraling flip through the air. She cackled maniacally as her arrows shattered through the red lyrium that protruded from the deformed Templars, bobbing and weaving her way through the fray. As the flames finally died, she disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Dorian Fade Stepped to a rocky hill, overlooking the battle. He needed to make sure that his aim was perfect for this little feat. He pulled his staff back, and then launched several purple, misty spells at as many of their opponents as he could hit, draining his magic quickly. He hoped the investment was worth it. He reached into his pocket, his fingers coiling around a lyrium potion. He yanked it out of its place, uncorked the bottle and drank deeply. He’d just finished when he noticed the Red Templar Horror staring up at him, its back pulsating, as it shot several shards of red lyrium at him. 

He felt one of the shards rip through the flesh on his arm, and he yelled out in pain. He dove to the side, focused on his foe, as he launched an ice spell at the beast, freezing it into place. Cassandra made the most of the opportunity, shattering the Horror into fragments with a sturdy bash from her shield. Before she had a chance to gather herself, she caught a blast of lightning from one of the Venatori mages, knocking her on her back. Dorian quickly drew a Barrier around her, as she righted herself and dove back into the fray, ignoring her wounds for the time being. He raised his hand to his arm, and felt the warmth of his healing spell mending his flesh. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the archers he had previously hit with his little trick sink to the ground, courtesy of Cole, who had slit his throat from ear to ear. From his body, a violet, incorporeal light arose, taking the form of the archer, which began pelting their opponents with ethereal arrows. _Good. We could use the help._ Dorian gazed over the battlefield again, as he launched countless streams of fire from his staff at one of his other targets, a Venatori mage, which ate through his barrier quickly enough for Sera to land an arrow straight through his head, his body crumpling to the ground, another purple apparition taking his place. Dorian felt the Fade rush around him, responding to the death of his foes, restoring his energy and his mana. If Dorian had absorbed anything from his upbringing in Tevinter, it was that crushing your enemies meant absolutely nothing if you couldn’t take advantage of their defeat. 

The Red Templars and the Venatori were strong, tapping into power that the mages and Templars were unable or unwilling to – the red lyrium granting an impossible physical resistance, and the blood magic augmenting the abilities of the Venatori far beyond those of a regular mage. While Trevelyan’s awe-inspiring display of might may have impeded them, once they had crossed the lake, they were formidable foes, easily knocking through the Inquisition forces that attempted to stop them. The mages and Templars fared only slightly better, managing to hack away at their enemies with their enhanced abilities. 

The mages and the Templars were uncoordinated, and it showed. The mages scattered, focusing on supporting the Templars and Inquisition soldiers at the front lines, not taking proper advantage of the openings they were afforded to throw a quick blast of fire to snap an archer’s bowstring or to paralyze a mage before he could dispel a barrier. Worse still, they tended to cluster together, too afraid to move about and create their own openings, too afraid to leave the side of their brethren, which only made it easier for the Red Templars to cut them down in one swoop.

The Templars were skilled warriors, but in spite of Barris’ advice, were seemingly unable to focus their abilities, instead casting their skills wide, weakening the barriers the mages were attempting to maintain and the healing spells that flew from their staves. The Venatori were impacted by the skills of the Templars, seemingly unprepared to handle the threat they posed, but remained far enough away to maintain a hold on their magic. Besides, they were unconcerned with their Red Templar companions, instead focusing intently on burning through as many of the Inquisition soldiers as possible. 

The Red Templars and Venatori had little synchronicity, if any at all. But the Venatori were savvy enough to take advantage of the battle, and the Red Templars were sturdy enough to withstand the beatings that were being thrown their way. Dorian came to the realization, slowly, that the mages of the south were never properly trained in battle, and their time on the run hadn’t fixed that problem. They had most certainly never trained alongside a Templar warrior, and Dorian wondered if this was all a result of the fact that the last time they’d been on the same battlefield, their weapons were turned against each other. _Vishante Kaffas_ , Dorian thought, as he watched a Red Templar foolishly step on a carefully placed Fire Mine, bursting into flames. Could we have been less prepared for this attack?

Dorian heard a voice above the fray – “To the west!” – and saw several soldiers, including Trevelyan and Blackwall, running towards the lone catapult stationed near the Penitent’s Crossing. Trevelyan ran at full speed – _he was just keeled over minutes ago_ – leading the charge. _Of course. Ass._

Dorian Fade Stepped to Solas, who had just finished electrocuting a Red Templar. “Solas! I have an idea – that ‘Abyss’ spell! We can pick the remainder of the forces here off.”

“That may be too dangerous, considering present company!” Solas yelled over the shouting. 

“We have to end this, and now!” Dorian shouted back, deflecting a fire spell that would have otherwise seared through his skull. Solas considered this for a moment, and nodded. Dorian forced his magic into the Barrier, as Solas began to focus on the spell. A shimmering green sphere appeared in the middle of the field, growing quickly into a giant orb, pulling violently on everything around it, dragging anything that wasn’t properly anchored down towards its center. Errant pieces of wood flew towards the vortex, and the Red Templars and Venatori began to slide, unable to stand their ground. 

“Barriers!” Dorian screamed to the mages that remained, and he watched as they pulled hastily at the Fade, yanking Barriers up around themselves, the Inquisition soldiers, and the Templars. Dorian turned his attention from his own Barrier, beginning to feel the pull of Solas’ spell, and carefully placed a Fire Mine on the ground beneath the Vortex. It was just a matter of time before enough of their foes piled up, and the Mine would blow them sky high. Dorian watched, as the sigil of another mine carved its way across the ground, and another, and another. The mages had figured out Dorian’s strategy, and some among them were piling on. The Templars must have realized, too, as Dorian watched them suck the magic away from the Venatori, leaving them powerless to stop themselves from being torn into the void.

The mines exploded in a delightful rhythm, burning clean through the remainder of the Red Templars and Venatori, leaving nothing behind but charred flesh, bone, and husks of red lyrium. One of the Venatori managed to survive the blast, standing shakily, his right side badly burnt, as he pulled his Barrier up and around him with great effort. Dorian watched as a Fade Step arced across the battlefield towards him, a gilded, shimmering sword slicing through his Barrier and then his back, emerging from his chest, before tearing up through his shoulder with ease, his body providing no resistance to Vivienne’s Spirit Blade. He fell to the ground with a swift kick to his back from Vivienne’s heel, dead and lifeless. 

“It appears as though we have some time. Hurry, we must heal ourselves before another wave arrives!” Vivienne shouted across the battlefield. The mages wasted no time, their hands glowing brightly, sealing their wounds as quickly as possible. The Templars seemed hesitant to allow the mages to heal them – Dorian would have normally admired their suspicion – but Vivienne quickly swatted it away. “I understand your objections, my dears, but now is certainly not the time to let old wounds get in the way of healing fresh ones.”

Dorian ran to help where he could, passing out a few lyrium potions to the mages, who drank voraciously, and healed up whoever he could get his hands to. He was patching up Varric, who had taken a blade to the leg.

“I’m surprised someone could aim that low, Varric.” Dorian joked, lightly.

“You do it all the time, Sparkler. I guess that’s what Trevelyan likes about you.” He sniped back. _Kaffas! How far had these rumors spread?_

“Save it for later, dwarf, when we aren’t about to be killed by this… what did you call him? Corypheus?” Varric looked at Dorian grimly. They heard the catapult launch behind them, over to the west. They trailed the projectile as it crashed into the hills in the distance, and saw the avalanche slide down the mountain, wiping out a number of the enemy’s forces, snuffing out the torches they carried down the hill as though they were candles in the wind. The cheers resonate throughout Haven – the Inquisition had struck a decisive blow against the opposition. It seemed as though the battle had finally turned in their favor. Dorian turned back to Varric, to finish the work he had started.

“It can’t be him. It’s just not… Hawke and I killed him!” Varric protested. “This doesn’t make any sense. It’s impossible!” 

They heard the roar rip through the night sky, quelling the cheers instantaneously. Dorian turn over towards the crossing, and saw it – a dragon, its wings beating violently against the air, its jaws pried apart as it exhaled its breath, red and electric, unlike anything he’d ever seen before. The beast tore across Haven, launching attack after attack, the resounding explosions that echoed throughout the village drowning out the cries of the people. Dorian’s eyes narrowed, trying to get a better glimpse of the dragon. It was black as night, its armored skin was ragged and sickly, its wings were tattered, and yet it could maintain flight. _That… it cannot be._

_An Archdemon. Kaffas!_

Dorian heard the cry of the voices, “Through the gate! Retreat to the Chantry!” He stood there, mesmerized. 

_Who brings an Archdemon to a sword fight?_

He turned and saw the Herald, leading Blackwall, Cole, Sera, and a small contingent of Inquisition soldiers. Behind them was Harritt, the blacksmith, who had just emerged from the burning ruins of his cabin, clutching on to what appeared to be a hammer. He momentarily recalled the first time he’d met Harritt.

_You’re that Tevinter, he’d said._

_That I am. Dorian, of House Pavus. A pleasure to make your acquaintance_ , Dorian had responded generously. The gesture was greeted with a clearing of Harritt’s throat, and a subsequent glob of saliva flying from his lips towards the ground between he and Dorian. 

_Maybe if he’d saved some of his spit for his burning cabin, he’d have been able to salvage more than that hammer._

Dorian Fade Stepped quickly towards the gate. 

“Get in, and quickly! The Herald shouted at everyone, waving them through the gate. Harritt trotted in last, almost out of breath.

“Move it, move it!” Cullen yelled, as everyone ran through. He shut the doors behind the final stragglers. Harritt continued his breathless jog onwards, clutching his prize. “We need everyone back to the Chantry. It’s the only building that might hold against… that beast!” He turned to look at the Herald. “At this point… just make them work for it.”

Dorian looked at Trevelyan, who nodded, as they both ran forward. To their right, Bull and Solas were plucking off encroaching Red Templars with the aid of Lysette. The Herald turned and ran to help them. _Can’t play the hero unless you’ve saving all the townspeople._

Dorian gave chase, with Sera closely behind, who plucked an arrow from her quiver and launched it clean between the shoulder blades of a Red Templar Knight, punching through his armor and lodging in his back. He roared in pain, twisting in response, giving Solas time to arc a Stonefist clean into his chin, snapping his head back violently, and his neck along with it. He slumped to the ground, dead. Bull took a sword to the forearm, arcing his red blood through the air, but the Red Templar had miscalculated. Bull reached forward, his hand seizing around the Templar’s throat. He buried his axe in the Templar’s side for leverage, and with a swift motion, ripped the Templar’s throat out, a stream of scarlet seeping down his armor, soaking Bull, who roared in delight.

Trevelyan shouted out, “Lysette! Down!” The warrior responded in kind, dropping herself to the ground, as a bolt of lightning shot into the final Red Templar, crackling in purple around his body. Lysette brought herself to her knees and buried her sword in the Templar’s stomach with all her might, the sound of the blade piercing through the armor and lyrium dulled slightly by the roars of the dragon overhead. 

The moved onwards towards the Chantry, coming across more of their foes stationed near the Tavern, which was lit up in flames. _Flissa!_ Dorian flew past the enemies in a Fade Step, all the while pondering when he’d developed a soft side – caring for the citizens of Haven, enough to run into a burning building! _Ha! It’s only because she does a good job of keeping your tankard full, Pavus._

He kicked down the door, and saw her, hiding underneath a table, whimpering. 

“Maker take me,” he muttered under his breath as he charged through the flaming debris towards her. “What are you doing down there?” He hollered at her. She leapt out from her hiding place, grabbing Dorian around the neck. 

“I couldn’t get out of the door! I didn’t know what to do!” She whinnied like a frightened horse, tears streaming down her ash-caked cheeks. 

“Let’s not linger any longer than we have to!” he yelled, picking her up around the waist and carting her out the door. They made it outside as a portion of the roof crumpled in. 

“Thank you!” she cried, unable to pry herself from him. Dorian swiftly removed her hands. 

“I only saved you because you’re the most important person in Haven. You pour the drinks. Now get to the Chantry!” he yelled. She looked at him, startled for a moment, before turning on her feet, grabbing at her skirt and bursting into a full run towards the safety of the Chantry.

He looked to his left, seeing Minaeve and Adan being escorted down the stair by Blackwall and Vivienne. Blackwall called to him. “Back to the square! We’ve saved as many as we could!” 

He ran back with the pair, as Vivienne drew a Barrier around them. Hers somehow felt much colder than Dorian’s, an icy rush of protection as opposed to the warm waves that Dorian was used to. Her disposition would certainly explain the difference.

They rounded the corner and watched as a Red Templar knocked Cassandra onto the ground, raising his sword high in the air to deliver the killing blow. Vivienne and Dorian instinctively whirled their staves around, readying spells to stop him. Before they had a chance, however, Trevelyan whirled into existence before the Templar, emerging from a cloud of blue and white, launching the Templar back with a Mind Blast. He soared across the square toward Varric, who hastily scattered out of the way. Varric loosed an explosive arrow into the Templar, which detonated on impact and blew the warrior into meaty chunks. 

Dorian saw the slight buckle of Trevelyan’s legs as he lifted Cassandra up. He wondered how hard Trevelyan was pushing himself, how much Trevelyan’s earlier feat had drained him. Dorian thought back to the night before, which presently seemed like an awful idea. _If only you had known what would await him, maybe you would have let him sleep._

Cole emerged from a nearby door, Segritt following the spirit closely, before running off towards the Chantry. He cast a look of horror over his shoulder at Cole. _I’d wager Cole popping into that cabin probably gave Segritt a good scare. That boy really needs to learn a better way to help._

“Come on! Fall back the Chantry!” 

They encountered Threnn on the path, who was guarding Chancellor Roderick from a group of Red Templars and Venatori that had surrounded them. Sera and Varric fired at the mages, but the arrows just bounced off their Barriers. Dorian moved forward, raising his staff to dispel the barrier, as Trevelyan and Blackwall ran forward to assault the group. 

The Templars bore down on Threnn, who was skilled enough to deflect their blades, but who was unable to stop the sword that pierced Roderick’s side. The man cried out in pain, and Trevelyan rushed, Fade Stepping into the Templar, kicking him off of Roderick, pulling up a barrier around the pair as the spells and blades tried their hardest to break through. The other members of the Inquisition were upon them in moments, Vivienne’s Spirit Blade rending through the Venatori’s Barrier as though it hadn’t been there at all, hacking through the fool effortlessly. Dorian had to admit that he appreciated her handiwork – for a southern Circle mage, she was completely fearless in battle, and could certainly square off with any Magister of the Imperium. 

Blackwall furiously taunted the Red Templars, whose attention turned to him, their blades and claws trying in vain to pierce his unyielding defense, giving Sera the time to land a few arrows in the hide of a Red Templar Horror, who screamed out before Solas ended its suffering with a well-timed blast of ice. 

Cole had ducked underneath his foes, grabbing Chancellor Roderick from the Herald, helping the wounded man towards the Chantry. The Herald looked despondent, as he provided cover for Cole, leaving a trail of Ice Mines in his wake. One fool Templar was so unwise as to follow Trevelyan, and was frozen solid by the snapping glyph. Threnn, moving after Trevelyan, took the opportunity to smash the Templar’s head with her blade, splattering icy fragments of his skull across the path. 

They rushed back to the Chantry as quickly as they could, Chancellor Roderick ushering the last of the stragglers through the door. “Move!” He urged, his voice straining against his injury. “Keep going! The Chantry is your shelter!” He keeled over, and Cole grabbed him, supporting his weight as best he could. 

“The blade went deep. He’s going to die.” Cole said

“What a… charming boy.” Roderick stammered.

“Herald,” Cullen shouted, running towards the group, “our position is not good. That dragon stole back any time you might have earned us.”

“I’ve seen an Archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that.” Cole said, his voice suddenly gravely serious, a stark contrast to his normally dreamy tone.

“I don’t care what it looks like! It’s cut a path for that army!” Cullen responded. _Sure, let’s not worry about the Archdemon when our precious military strategy has been disrupted._ “They’ll kill everyone in Haven!”

“The Elder One doesn’t care about the village. He only wants the Herald!” Cole responded. _Good to know_. Everyone turned toward Trevelyan, who swallowed the news with difficulty. He picked his head up, and opened his mouth.

“If it will save these people, he can have me.”

_Kaffas! What is wrong with him?!_

“It won’t. He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he’ll crush them, kill them anyway. I don’t like him.” Cole whimpered.

“You don’t like… Ugh.” Cullen had had his fill of Cole. “Herald, there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that had slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last slide.” _He couldn’t… Cullen couldn’t mean… He’d kill us all!_

“We’re overrun. To hit the enemy, we’d bury Haven.” _Smart enough to not want to kill us all, but still all too eager to throw himself on the blade._

“We’re dying. But we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.” Cullen said. His defiance of the Elder One involved slaughtering the remaining members of the Inquisition. _Wonderful. Who will stand against the Elder One once the Inquisition falls?_

Everyone stood, drinking in what Cullen was proposing. Sera twitched nervously, furiously scratching at the grip of her bow. Blackwall sighed, his face resigned – he’d accepted that he’d die long ago, either fighting the Darkspawn or when the Calling came for him. Dorian wondered if death held any meaning for the man. Vivienne and Solas were, per usual, unflinching and inscrutable. Varric and Cassandra looked at each other, their faces acknowledging the grim scenario. _Last chance to consummate all that unresolved sexual tension, you two._

“Chancellor Roderick can help.” Cole’s voice rang out. “He wants to say it before he dies.”

“There is a path. You wouldn’t know it, unless you’d made the summer pilgrimage, as I have. The people can escape.” He stood, straining against his wound, which bled heavily against his robes. “She must have shown me – _Andraste_ must have shown me, so I could t-tell you.” He stammered. 

Trevelyan moved to his side. “What are you on about, Roderick?”

“It was whim that I walked the path. I did not mean to start, it was overgrown. Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one who remembers… I don’t know, Herald. If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident. _You_ could be more.”

Trevelyan turned to Cullen. “What about it, Cullen. Will it work?”

Cullen nodded. “Possibly. If he shows us the path. But what of your escape?”

The Herald turned his head, not looking at anything in particular, not wanting to say the words that has sprung to everyone’s minds. _He’s not planning for his escape._

“Perhaps you will surprise it, find a way.” Cullen added weakly. There was no ‘way,’ and no one harbored any illusions that Trevelyan would be returning, as they bowed their heads sorrowfully, grieving their Herald.

Cullen turned on his heel, and moved towards the remaining forces. “Inquisition. Follow Chancellor Roderick through the Chantry. Move!” Cassandra moved to Roderick’s side, taking his weight from Cole, as they began their slow march. Roderick stopped her, turning to the Herald one last time.

“Herald, if you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this… I pray for you.”

Trevelyan bowed his head respectfully. Several Inquisition soldiers moved towards the door. Cullen returned to the Herald’s side. “They’ll load the trebuchets. Keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the tree line.” Trevelyan nodded errantly at him, too burdened by the weight of his impending sacrifice to do much else. “If we are to have a chance, if you are to have a chance, let that thing hear you.” He turned and marched. 

Trevelyan looked across the Chantry, his eyes heavy. The man had just escaped certain death, having sealed the Breach, and yet again cruel fate was determined to break him, to end him, leaving no trace of him behind. Dorian had just accepted the possibility that Trevelyan might live, that the Inquisition would carry on, that there might be more nights in that bed in Haven, and now, all he could do was watch, unable to find the words to express anything that he felt. 

“Blackwall. Cole. Solas. Please, come with me. I cannot do this alone.” His voice was soft, yet he spoke clearly. The three men walked to his side dutifully. “Thank you,” he murmured, nodding his head at each of them in turn. 

“I’m coming, too.” Dorian blurted out, stepping towards the Herald, his chest puffed out in defiance, daring the Herald to question his decision.

“Dorian,” the Herald’s voice was quiet and patient, but Dorian heard the sadness that clung to the edges of his throat. “You are going with the rest of the Inquisition. Please, do not fight me on this.”

“There would be no need to fight if you would just accept my help.” Dorian couldn’t contain the hard edge that sharpened his words to a point.

“And if you die, then who will reform Tevinter? Don’t you owe it to Felix to survive this ordeal?” Dorian felt the punch to his gut. _Trevelyan: The Herald of Low Blows._ “You have to carry on, Dorian.” The Herald moved towards him, his hand grabbing Dorian by the back of the head, pulling their foreheads together. “I’m sorry.” His voice broke momentarily, and he gathered himself, his eyes cast downward. “This isn’t how I’d hoped things would go.” He looked up at Dorian, his lips parted, quivering. He sucked in a breath and looked back down, thinking better of kissing Dorian in the midst of all this chaos. He let go of Dorian, unable to meet his gaze again, and turned to walk out the door of the Chantry. 

Dorian stood there for a moment, incapable of processing everything that was occurring around him, the Inquisition rallying to get everyone out of the Chantry, Cullen barking out orders as fast as his lips could move, and the Herald’s outline, his glorious figure, standing stark against the flames that stood outside the Chantry doors, which closed behind him.

_He’s gone._

____

 

Trevelyan tore across Haven, shredding through whatever Red Templars and Venatori crossed his path with reckless abandon. He was impossibly exhausted, but his magic was strong. The power of the Breach may have escaped his palm, but it had left something behind in the Mark. He watched as he immolated a Venatori Archer, the flames eating through his barrier with a stunning velocity, the poor man screaming as he was consumed. 

They made it to the trebuchet, which had been loaded by the Inquisition soldiers, who were now doing their best to stave off a small group of Red Templars. Trevelyan wasted no time, planting a Wall of Ice between the soldiers and the Templars. 

“Go! Get back to the Chantry! You can make it out of here alive!” _No point in me dying if the rest of you do it with me._ They nodded dutifully at the Herald and sped off. The Red Templars had made their way around the Ice Wall, and Gabriel locked them down with an Arc Lightning spell, stopping them dead in their tracks.

His magic was different, and he knew it. He just couldn’t explain how it was happening. Well, he could. _The Mark._ Unfortunately, that’s where the explanation ended. He’d noticed it when he’d first woken up in the cell below the Chantry. The Fade has always sung to him, but it was a gentle lullaby, the simplest of hymns. With every Rift, new melodies came, adding layer upon layer of harmony. And then the Breach turned the song into a symphony, the refined masterpiece of a virtuoso. He couldn’t name all the subtle intricacies, but he could hear every note. 

It was overwhelming. 

Even with the energy of the Breach gone, the symphony remained. It was no longer as loud, but it was no less incredible. Watching the Templars sink to their knees as they were shocked into submission was gratifying, to say the least. He’d never imagined he’d possess such power, and frankly, it frightened him. Power corrupts. There were all too many examples of this harsh truth in recent memory.

_At least you’ll die before you find out what power does to you._

Cole and Blackwall busied themselves with slaughtering the Templars, an easy task after they were immobilized by Trevelyan. He rushed to the trebuchet, and began to turn. 

“I’ll get the trebuchet turned around!” He yelled out to them. “Just keep me covered!” His barrier rose up around him as he began to turn the wheel. The trebuchet began to rattle, spinning slowly towards the mountains above Haven. 

The Venatori and the Red Templars slowly bore down upon them. Cole dissipated into smoke, striking them down with stealth and speed. Blackwall stood his ground, unfazed by their assault. Solas controlled the battlefield, locking them down with well-placed mines and Static Cages. Trevelyan turned, every so often, freezing a Templar here, dispelling a Venatori Barrier there. He’d made it almost halfway when he heard the bloodcurdling scream, and the thunderous sound of a lumbering beast moving towards them. 

He turned to see the monster standing across the field, encased in red lyrium. What must have been a Templar was now an enormous, walking tomb to the man that had lived inside of that shell. It shouted across the battlefield, its screams of mindless anguish rippling through the air. It smashed its arm into the ground, raising spikes of red lyrium across the battlefield that rushed toward Blackwall. 

Trevelyan Fade Stepped to a better vantage point, drawing a Barrier around Blackwall as the spikes smashed into him. He managed to avoid much of the attack, but he was knocked off his feet by the force. They’d been lucky enough to avoid major injuries thus far. It didn’t seem their luck would last.

Solas launched a Stonefist at the Behemoth. It hit the beast, the sound of lyrium shattering underneath the blow, but it didn’t seem to slow it down. The beast swung its massive arm back, teetering on its too-small legs, as it careened wildly towards the elf, who Fade Stepped away as it brought down its fist with all its might, crashing into the ground. Trevelyan dropped an Ice Mine underneath its feet, the crest tracing itself across the ground as the beast attempted to right itself. The sigil glowed brightly before snapping, coating its legs in a thick layer of frost. The Behemoth roared, and broke free from ice, as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

“We have to sever that arm!” Trevelyan yelled across the battlefield. “Cole – that Hidden Blades technique. Aim it at his elbow!” 

“I can’t! He’s moving too quickly!” the spirit yelled back, his voice quavering. _Shit_. Trevelyan Fade Stepped forward towards the beast, planting himself right in front of it. He pushed his staff towards the face of the monster, and blasted him with an enormous flame. The Behemoth roared in fury, jerking his arm back, ready to attack. Trevelyan watched it arc through the sky, leaping at the last moment, feeling the force of the arm come down right behind him.

“Cole! Now!” He shouted. He turned to see the ethereal violet light spiraling towards the Behemoth, landing at the joint in his arm. Several phantoms leapt through the air, slashing into the monster, wearing away at the lyrium that encased its arm. _Come on!_

The arm splintered, then cracked violently, as the Behemoth teetered back, unable to maintain a balance. Blackwall’s chain dug deep into the Behemoth’s back, as he pulled with all his might, yanking the beast down to the ground, its limbs writing in an attempt to right itself. Solas flung a barrage of Stonefists at the monster, shattering the lyrium spikes that had grown from its shoulders, as Blackwall moved in, his axe slamming into the skull of the beast, smashing repeatedly, cracking through the lyrium and the armor as the creature roared its dying breath in agony. 

“He’s dead.” Cole murmured. Blackwall struck it one more time to be certain, ripping its jaw from its face inadvertently. 

“Good.” Blackwall muttered between heavy breaths.

Trevelyan sighed heavily. “I have to finish turning the trebuchet. You all need to make it back to the Chantry. You may still be able to make it out.”

“What are you going on about?” Blackwall shouted.

“You heard me!” Trevelyan had found his way back to the trebuchet, his hands grabbing at the wheel, turning it with all his might, or what little he had left of it. “Get out, now! I am going to die when Haven is buried, but you don’t have to. We’ve stopped the Venatori and the Red Templars. I can do this alone!” He yelled, his voice shaking. _That’s right. I’m going to die, and deservedly so. How many have perished because of me?_ He could almost feel their hands, reaching out to drag him to the Beyond. 

“You shouldn’t stand alone, not now!” Blackwall tried to argue.

“It’s not much of a sacrifice, Blackwall, if I don’t save as many people as possible!” Trevelyan’s voice squeezed out of his chest as the trebuchet resisted his efforts. _Just a little more._

Solas moved towards Blackwall, putting his hand on the Warden’s shoulder. “Remember your motto. ‘In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice.’ Were you in the Herald’s place, would you not want the same? The Herald has fought valiantly. Let us honor this last request.” 

Blackwall’s eyes dropped. _Listen to Solas._ He raised his face to Trevelyan, his brows furrowed determinedly. His right fist raised to his chest, as his bowed toward Trevelyan.

“It has been an honor, Herald.” 

Solas nodded politely at Trevelyan. “Send up a signal when you have reached safety. I will hold the trebuchet until then,” Trevelyan shouted. Cole stared at Trevelyan, his watery blue eyes gleaming in the darkness. 

“Goodbye, then.” _How apropos_. The spirit may have been unsurprising, but he never ceased to amaze. The trio turned, beating a hasty retreat to the Chantry.

Trevelyan kept at the wheel. Almost there. His arms were ready to give out, his body fatigued to the point of collapse from everything that he’d endured this day. The trebuchet turned into position. Done. 

He stood back for a moment, his breathing deep and strained by the exertion. Sweat poured down his face, the cool wind stinging against his cheeks. He tried drinking in every sensation, knowing that they would likely be his last. In mere moments, everything he ever knew would be ripped from him.

He thought back to his youth, his mother and father, their distant, dignified silhouettes casting long shadows in his mind. Their expectations had been crushing, ever since his youth, in spite of the fact that he was not the firstborn. _You are a Trevelyan_. He had tried so hard to please them, to be kind and respectful, to carry himself with purpose, like his sister and brothers. He remembered the manor in Ostwick where he had lived, and the simple childhood joy of running through the fields and climbing through the trees on the estate. All of that went to shit the minute he accidentally lit the hem of his mother’s skirt on fire. He remembered the look on his mother’s face when he was taken away to the Circle, the look of utter disappointment as she watched him leave. He did not scream or cry.

The Circle was home, yet not. The other mages were like a family, cobbled together from the disparate corners of Thedas. The Templars were kind, but aloof. It became another place where expectation and oppression melded together, bearing down upon him. _You are a mage_. All of that went to shit when the mages rebelled, shattering everything that he’d known and grown to accept. Sure, he had longed for the day when he would be able to walk through the doors of the Circle and never have to look back, but when the chance came, he was too afraid to take the first step.

Next came the Conclave, the one chance for peace in Thedas. Dragged along for his name and that reason alone, he’d put his fears aside and smiled brightly at the sight of the world outside the walls of the Circle. The Conclave was the chance he’d been waiting for – a life outside the walls of the Circle. He could go anywhere, do anything – to Antiva, or Rivain, carving out a life for himself in a small seaside town, doing Maker knows what. And, once more, all of that went to shit when he woke up in the cells below the Chantry in Haven, completely unaware of anything other than the blinding pain and sickly green light that emanated from his hand.

Haven. The greatest weight he’d ever carried on his shoulders. Only he could close the Breach. _How will this all go to shit?_ He had wondered. It had to happen, inevitably. They called him ‘the Herald of Andraste.’ As if he’d believed in the Maker or his Bride much at all. As if either of them would choose him to lead the Inquisition and bring peace to the world. 

Everyone else seemed so convinced. So, then, why couldn’t he believe? Was it because he hadn’t believed in so long? Or because it required believing in himself?

Not like any of that mattered much, now. 

The Inquisition would carry on. They would find a way to defeat the Elder One. The Breach was sealed – that was all they’d needed him for. He had played the part that he’d been given, that he never wanted. He’d go down in the history books as a martyr, which is more than he ever would have expected for himself.

 _Maybe I’ll live. Maybe, somehow, I’ll survive this entire mess._ What would he even do, then? Return to the Inquisition? He was unnecessary. Cassandra, Cullen, Leliana, Josephine – they were the people who should be shaping the world, not him. Maybe he’d escape, steal away to Antiva, or Rivain. Find his small, seaside town. Stand on the white sand beaches, feel the cool, turquoise water splashing against his skin.

_Maybe Dorian will come with me._

He laughed the idea off in his mind. Dorian admired the Herald, not Trevelyan. Without the Mark and his title, what interest would someone like Dorian have in him? A cultured, sophisticated mage from Tevinter, and some second-rate Chantry mage from a southern Circle, with no claim to his family’s estate? He thought back to the night before, kissing him on the mountain. _How long I waited for that._

 _And how foolish I was._ He felt Dorian’s arms around him, the phantom limbs embracing him, the heat of his body, the memory of being inside of him tugging at his heartstrings. _It never would have worked, or else you wouldn’t be standing here, waiting to die._

He didn’t want these to be his final moments, the doubt and regret that so often consumed him being the last thoughts he ever had. _Maybe there was something there, last night._ He let the thought take him for a moment, the smell of Dorian’s skin filling his nose, the tickle of his mustache against Gabriel’s bare upper lip. 

The roar of the Archdemon ripped through the memory, its searing hot breath bearing down upon Trevelyan, knocking him several yards away, throwing him violently on his side. His body screamed in agony from the fall, not to mention the exhaustion. He grabbed at his head, and quickly made his way to his feet.

He saw him – the Elder One, Corypheus – moving towards him, walking through the flames, his black robes casting an ominous outline against the orange background.

Behind him, the Archdemon raged toward him, its footfalls fast and angry, stopping just short of where the Herald stood, bellowing in Gabriel’s face, its hot, rancid breath sending his robes flowing out behind him violently. It roared, its head tilted back towards the night sky.

“Enough!” The Elder One called out. Trevelyan felt the rush behind him, and turned back towards Corypheus, whose arms were extended towards him. _So much for getting out alive._

“Pretender. You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more.” His voice was deep and dark, twisted by whatever had turned him into – into whatever he was. 

Trevelyan stood, for a moment, pondering his response. Death was all but certain now. He’d never be able to outrun the both of them, and an avalanche. He wondered what the heroes in all the tales his mother had read to him when he was a child would say.

_I suppose I should continue playing the part. Finish out strong._

“Whatever you are, I am not afraid!”

___

 

Dorian stood, watching Haven burn beneath him, the Archdemon circling overhead, roaring down towards the trebuchet where the Herald was making his last stand. He couldn’t see Trevelyan from this far away, thankfully. It would have only made everything that much harder. The last few members of the Inquisition moved past him, carting whatever they could salvage from the ruined village. Dorian stood vigil on the mountainside, praying for another miracle. _You’ve already got a string of them under your belt. What’s one more?_

He thought back to exactly one day before, when he was crossing the threshold into the Herald’s cabin. He tried to find it in the blaze below, but it was impossible to see past all the smoke and fire. He clung to the memory of Trevelyan’s smell, the feel of his smooth skin, the undulation of their tongues, their hips, pressing against each other’s, the sheer ecstasy of his orgasm, the delicate, gentle warmth that pulled them into each other’s arms, and the sleep that took them soon after. It wasn’t the same as the tawdry affairs he’d had in the past, the whores that’s he’d bedded in an attempt to feel something, _anything_. He couldn’t help but think that what had happened between he and Trevelyan was _sacred_ , and he wasn’t quite sure whether it was because Trevelyan was the Herald of Andraste, Bride of the Maker, or because they had a connection, whatever that connection might have been. A connection that was about to be severed. _You ought to be rather pleased with yourself. You let a little bit of hope creep in, and it quite literally goes up in flames._

He thought back to Trevelyan’s goodbye, his apology. He had accepted his fate before, when it was just the Breach that needed to be sealed, but the chance of survival now, facing down the Elder One and an Archdemon? Of course, the one thing the stubborn ass couldn’t accept was Dorian’s help. Dorian certainly wasn’t ready to welcome his own demise, but he believed in Trevelyan, and shouldn’t he have the conviction to stand by those beliefs? Besides, his belief in the necessary reforms that Tevinter must undergo if it had any hope of making it to the next Age would probably get him killed on the floor of the Magisterium. If anything, he should acclimate himself to the idea of throwing himself in the line of fire – his convictions would inevitably be responsible for his death, either this day or the next. 

He saw motion at the tree line, and his eyes snapped down, focused intently. At the bottom of the hill, he saw three figures rushing towards him. Solas. Blackwall. Cole. _Trevelyan was not with them._ The fury in his gut was instantaneous and overwhelming.

“You just left him to _die_?!” Dorian screamed down the mountain as they approached. “What were you thinking?” He couldn’t stop himself. “’Oh, job done, let’s leave the Herald of Andraste alone to confront the Elder One and his _fucking_ Archdemon.’ _Venhedis._ If you won’t protect him, then I will. I won’t let him stand alone.” He grabbed for his staff and began to move, but Solas planted a hand firmly on his chest. 

“Get your bloody hands off me,” Dorian growled with the requisite amount of venom, “Or I will remove them for you.”

“The Herald made his decision.” Solas said, his voice resolute. “We must send up the signal.”

“ _Don’t you dare_!” Dorian pushed against Solas, the elf ‘s arm buckling against his weight. 

“Dorian!” Blackwall roared. Dorian’s head spun angrily to meet the voice. “I didn’t want to leave him there either, but he would not be swayed. The man is determined to carry this burden. He sacrificed himself so that the Inquisition could carry on.”

Dorian balked at Blackwall’s comment. “Obviously, you didn’t try hard enough.” Dorian began to move again. 

“You’d never make it in time. You think he’d be happy with you dying in vain?” Blackwall shouted after him.

“He would be very sad if you died.” Cole added quietly, his voice suddenly present, real, laced with sympathy, piercing Dorian in a way that made him inexplicably uncomfortable. Dorian stopped in his tracks, if only for a moment, before turning to curse them one last time. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian saw Solas’ arm rise into the air, a massive flame erupting from his hand. _No!_ Dorian thought. As the flame reached its apex, it exploded violently, a bright light arcing against the black, smoky sky.

He threw himself forward, his staff pointed directly at Solas’ face, crackling with electricity. Solas stood, unmoved by his reaction. 

“ _Why_?!” Dorian roared.

“I am only doing what the Herald asked, much as you are only pointing your staff at me because you cannot aim a spell at whatever cruel fate put the Herald on this path.” His words were as restrained and unknowable as his expression. Dorian was flush with rage, every muscle tensed, ready to blast Solas across the Frostbacks with all the magic he had in his body. 

He heard the sound of a boulder smashing against the face of the mountain, and watched as the snow exploded downwards, like a thousand horses stampeding violently towards Haven all at once. He turned, watching as Haven was consumed, the Archdemon flying off into the night, as all the flames and chaos it has sowed were covered in white. The snow spread, further and further, until there was nowhere else for it to go. The rumble died down, and there was nothing but the sound of the wind filling the air around them. Dorian felt the tears well up in his eyes, but he stopped them before they pooled too heavily to be restrained. 

_Gabriel._ Dorian’s mind flashed to the moment he’d had a chance to gaze at the so-called Herald of Andraste, after he’d managed to seal the Rift in the dusty Chantry in Redcliffe. He’d quietly admired the cut of the man against the shadows cast by the candles, the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. His posture was relaxed, his head cocked ever so slightly to the side, an errant strand of hair having fallen out of the hastily prepared top knot, as silvery-blond as the newly risen moon. His eyes were narrowed, in what Dorian now understood to be mutual admiration. Dorian made some lazy quip about him not understanding the power that he wielded, and the Herald laughed, his mouth drawn back in that smile that seemed to show each of his pearly teeth. _Oh, sweet Maker_ , Dorian had thought. _A Herald, indeed._

“I am sorry, Dorian,” Solas said, his voice low and cool, “but we cannot tarry here. We must go, now.” 

Dorian looked out over the barren, snow-covered wasteland that stretched out in front of him. It was hard to believe that anything had existed there in the first place. He watched as the Archdemon disappeared over the hills in the distance. How much would this Elder One reduce to nothing before he was appeased? Dorian looked down again, to where Trevelyan had made his last stand. 

_I am sorry, Gabriel. This wasn’t how I’d hoped things would go, either._

The wind blew against him, singing a mournful hymn for everything that had been lost below. He turned around to face the elf. 

“Fine. Let’s go.”

___

 

“Enjoy your victory. Here’s your prize!”

Trevelyan slammed into the lever with all his strength, watching as the trebuchet launched, the boulder flying through the air in a beautiful curve, slamming into the mountains over Haven. The snow reacted, rushing down the mountain, gathering speed.

Trevelyan turned, running as fast as he could, with no idea where he might go. The avalanche was coming, as the Archdemon’s roar echoed behind his back, his legs carrying him as quickly as he could run, finding himself praying, yet again, for another miracle.

_You almost sound like a believer. Maybe this is your punishment for playing along with that ‘Herald of Andraste’ nonsense._

He trailed around the trebuchets, unable to think, reacting on the basest of instinct. He heard the avalanche approaching, which paled into comparison to the sound of his pulse in his ears, roaring violently, marking each footfall like thunder. There! That small opening in the wooden barricade – if he managed to get through, he might be able to Fade Step away to safety. _Just a few feet more._

He leapt over the barrier, his face turning back to glance at Haven one last time. All that was left was a wall of white, rapidly rushing towards him. He looked down and saw what was below the small break in the wall – a mineshaft. It was too late to correct his trajectory. He had one final thought before his head slammed into the boards that covered the shaft:

_Another smashing success. It all goes to shit again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm happy to report: Finals are complete! Three exams and one twenty-page paper later, and year two of law school is finally complete. What a slog.
> 
> I would have posted this chapter last night, but I couldn't stare at my computer screen any longer or I would have doused myself in kerosene and lit myself on fire. Seriously, twenty pages worth of political corruption analysis killed me dead.
> 
> So that Mark! Really making things happen. I have at least a shakily canon explanation for all of this nonsense which you aren't going to get for a while.
> 
> Also, this chapter was a bit light on the snark, but I think rightfully so. I also hate writing battles. I would very much like to avoid having to do it again, and I'm pretty sure I can, save for a few instances.
> 
> And we finally get into Trevelyan's head! I figured it was about time. We'll be settled comfortably in Dorian's perspective for the majority of this tale, but there will be some choice Trevelyan excerpts. Just you wait, I have plans. Dreadful, awful plans. 
> 
> And again, thank you for all the comments and kudos! It really keeps me motivated to keep going.


	13. The Camp in the Mountains

Dorian, Blackwall, Solas, and Cole had managed to catch up with the remainder of the Inquisition forces quickly. Cassandra was heading up the end of the march, which bumbled along the mountain path as quickly as the legs of the jittery people would carry them. She caught sight of the quartet and ran back towards them.

“You’re alive!” She yelled, relief gripping her voice. Her eyes darted around before coming to the painful realization. “Then… The Herald…”

“It is done.” Solas said. “The Herald has given us enough time to escape. Let us not waste his sacrifice.”

Cassandra nodded. “The mages could use your assistance – there are many who have been wounded.” Cole vanished in a puff of smoke. Cassandra hardly flinched. “Blackwall, your assistance in guarding the rear would be invaluable, should any more Red Templars or Venatori decide to give chase.” Blackwall nodded. She looked back, beyond them, as if she expected Trevelyan to materialize behind them. Dorian was seething. “I cannot believe he’s gone.” Her voice trailed off, her furrowed brows narrowing her plaintive eyes.

“No thanks to those three,” Dorian huffed. He Fade Stepped away from them, making sure to blast Solas with a bit of extra frost on his departure. It wasn’t the right thing to do, naturally, but the elf had it coming, Dorian was sure, for this or whatever other sins he might have committed. 

He sped along, until he found a group of Templars, trudging along in the snow, unable to right themselves in their armor. 

“Do you need assistance?” Dorian asked. “You look wounded. Let me help you.”

“No, we’re fine.” One of them responded in a groan. A woman, with strands of red hair leaking out from underneath her helm spoke up.

“You’re that Tevinter, aren’t you? Must be really proud of your countrymen.” 

Dorian was in no mood to tolerate this nug shit. “I’d venture that I’ve killed more of my so-called countrymen in the name of the Inquisition than you have. So forgive me the offense of having been born in the Imperium, and I’ll forgive your southern ignorance. As I said, I can help heal your wounds, or you can continue your pathetic hobbling.”

They glared at him. Dorian wanted an excuse to fight. His hands wrapped tightly around his staff, ready to kill the first one of them that moved against him.

“I can’t hold out much longer, Clarisse,” one of the men said, his voice rattling against the cold. The redheaded woman turned. “I’ll take whatever aid you can provide. I could care less where you hail from.” He coughed violently.

Dorian moved quickly to his side. “I promise, this won’t hurt that badly.” He reached his hand out, sweeping it over the man’s body, as his hand glowed brightly. The man responded, wincing in pain as the spell stitched him back together. He yelped slightly, and Dorian felt the Fade being pulled away from him slowly. 

“What are you doing to him?!” The redheaded woman yelled. 

“Healing him. I’d do a much better job if you’d be quiet and let me focus.” He had half a mind to take whatever bit of the Fade that remained around him and blast her head clean off her shoulders with a bolt of lightning.

“No, Clarisse, stop. The spell just healed a broken bone.” He gasped, as Dorian continued the steady motion of his hand. “It hurt, but it feels much better than it did before. Let him continue.” Dorian gazed at the stubborn redhead, who huffed and turned her head away. He quickly finished his work. The man’s breathing had steadied, and he managed to pull himself upright, his hobble having progressed into a more respectable, even gait. “Thank you very much. I didn’t catch your name?”

“Dorian. And you are welcome. Thank you for having the sense to accept my offer. Anyone else?” Dorian said, possibly a little too curtly. 

Two of the other Templars looked up at him. The redhead continued staring off into the distance. 

He made quick work of their wounds, which were less severe than the first man’s. They each straightened their posture after the spells began to work, and helped carry their brethren along the path. 

Dorian looked one more time at the redhead, who still refused to make eye contact. “Your wound is severe. You will lose your leg if you don’t let me treat it now.”

“I don’t need your help.” She sneered at him. 

“What you’ll need is an amputation if you aren’t healed up properly. And what good will you be then, to the Inquisition, or to whatever’s left of your Order?” He growled viciously. 

“I’d rather lose my leg than accept help from a filthy magister.” She sneered, her voice breaking in the middle of the sentence. _She was scared. Good._

Dorian’s eyes narrowed at her. “So this is how you honor the Herald’s sacrifice? With petty divisiveness? Ha! You are _unworthy_ of the chance that the Herald gave you tonight. Good luck with your future stump, you worthless –“ Dorian was cut off just before he landed on an obscenity when screams pealed through the line. He quickly dissipated into a Fade Step, tearing back towards the end of the line. 

He whirled to Cassandra’s side, when he noticed that her fears had been well founded – a small group of Venatori and Red Templars trailed after them. He dodged a fireball that sailed past his head and slammed into a cart, lighting in on fire. 

“Cassandra, hold!” Dorian screamed, as he whirled his staff around and slammed it towards the Red Templar Archer, a violet blob of magic trailing off the end and into his face. He contorted violently, trying to shake the spell, but it was of no use. 

Dorian normally would have waited a little longer for this part, but he was furious. He snapped his fingers, and watched as the explosion ripped through the body of the Red Templar. He waited and watched as the purple mist seeped out towards the other enemies, and smaller explosions rocked their bodies violently. A Venatori lost his staff arm in the process, screaming in horror as blood gushed from the wound. Dorian watched as Solas’ Stone Fist pummeled the Templar Horror in its hideously deformed face, and Blackwall took advantage of its stunned state by slamming his axe into the side of its skull, pulling back, and landing another blow against its neck. The beast’s body buckled underneath it, as it dropped to the snow, dead.

Cassandra had been kind enough to remove the Venatori mage’s other arm for him with a swipe of her blade, and she shoved him to the ground with her shield before stabbing him clean through the chest, and then again, just to be sure that he was dead. 

Dorian ran to the burning cart, which contained some odds and ends. The horse attached to the front was bucking wildly. “Here!” he called to some of the Inquisition scouts. “Grab whatever you can salvage from the cart without burning yourself.” He waved his hand over the harness, to uncouple the horse from the cart. Once free, it tried to speed off, but Dorian held on to the reins magically. “It’s okay. Settle down!” He moved around to its side, letting it move away from the cart slowly but surely. When it stopped attempting to gallop, he loosened the reins, and luckily, it did no more than trot forward. 

Dorian sighed. At least the attack hadn’t cost them much. The scouts ran to him, arms full of boxes and supplies. “What should we do with these, sir?” He’d recognized the scout, one of Leliana’s mages. 

“Find another cart, if any have the room. If you can, try that fire-warding spell I taught you. It might not stop the flames completely, but it will help. We won’t lose another cart.” 

“Good idea, sir. Thank you, sir.” He bowed his head dutifully, and he and the other scouts ran ahead. Dorian looked back to the burning cart, which glowed orange in the distance. He felt something well up in his chest, and his stamped it back down.

_You’ve seen enough things burn this evening._

He turned back towards the rest of the troops, and continued onward. 

___

 

Trevelyan stirred, feeling the cold ground against his face, his limbs heavy and twisted. He tried to pick his head up, and immediately regretted his effort, his entire body screaming in protest. He tried to open his eyes, but it was worthless; they wouldn’t focus. He forced his arm up towards his face, gently touching his head, running his hands through his hair. He felt the dried, crackled blood. _What happened?_

It all came back to him in a violent rush, his head swimming even worse than before. Haven was gone. The Elder One had struck. The Anchor. Falling down the mineshaft. 

_But you’re alive._

He gasped at the realization that he had not, in fact, died. His mind snapped back, regaining its focus. _You need to heal yourself. You need to find your way to the Inquisition._

He felt the warmth of his healing spell against the back of his head, its power bringing the world back into focus, what little of it he could see in the darkness. He tested his limbs. Sore, damaged, but not broken, thankfully. He moved to pick himself up, slowly, and winced at the sharp pain in his side. _Fuck._ His ribs. He had no idea if they were broken, or merely bruised. He waved his hand over them, praying his healing spell would take the pain away. Without his staff, the spell was unfocused, helping to ease the pain, but not vanquishing it completely. 

_Fuck._

He pushed himself up, whimpering against the pain, grabbing at his side instinctively. His legs were heavy, his feet disobedient. _How long have I been unconscious?_ He moved forward slowly, his steps tentative. He lit a fire in his hand, and lifted it above it head. He was in a tunnel. The avalanche had caved in whatever was behind him. _Only one way to go: the overarching theme of my life._

He walked forward, slowly but surely, shaking the stiffness from his joints. He kept up, picking up his pace, the cold of the tunnel helping to rouse him. He probably should have healed himself a bit more, but without the flame, it would be impossible to see anything. _You have to make it out._

He pushed himself, his uneven gait breaking into a slow jog. He had no idea where he was. _Under Haven, probably. Possibly._ What would he even do when he got back? Where was he even supposed to go back to?

He rounded another bend, and saw light glinting off the walls. _An exit!_

He came into a large cavern, cold and empty. At least, he thought it was empty, until the Despair Demons shrieked, emerging from the shadows. They floated towards him, their tiny cloaks rippling unnaturally, as though being perpetually blown by a gentle breeze. Trevelyan grabbed for his staff, but it was gone. _Shit._

The demons wouldn’t let him escape, much less flee. He tossed a fireball at one of them. It knocked the demon back, but didn’t stop the advance. The other demon had begun to cackle, as a shining ball of ice began to form in between its tiny hands. He was out of options. The Anchor crackled in his hand.

_Yes. That._

He lifted his hand above his head, and he felt the power surge forth, the green light illuminating the room around him, reflected by the ice. He watched as the demons were slowly ripped apart, streaks of emerald tearing at them at them like knives, drawing them into the vortex that swirled above his head. Their screams dissipated, and the vortex vanished with them. The Anchor returned to its gentle glow. 

_What the fuck was that?_

He had no idea what exactly it was that he had just done. But, in the instant before he moved his hand, he seemed to know instinctively what it was that he had to do. He looked down at the Anchor, which glittered back at him as innocuously as it ever had. It was frustrating, having this power that he couldn’t explain, that just seemed to work whenever he needed it. Of course it was useful, but it made him feel terribly incompetent. What good was his power if he couldn’t understand how to harness it but in the most dire of situations? 

Now wasn’t the time to worry about this. _You have to move._

He saw the light coming through the tunnel, and he heard the sound of the wind echoing in the distance. He moved quickly towards the noise, which grew louder and louder with each step. He saw the exit in front of him, and stepped out onto the wooden platform into the tundra. The wind roared violently, carrying a storm that reduced visibility to only a few feet in front of him. A particularly strong gust caught him, and he braced his body against the squall, throwing his hands up in front of his face. He drew a Barrier up around himself, and cast a simple spell to maintain some heat within the bubble. He looked around, trying to get a sense of his surroundings. The storm made it impossible to see the skies, not that he was much for celestial navigation. He returned his gaze towards the terrestrial, and saw a dim orange light through the clouds of snow. He moved quickly towards the fire, dropping off the wooden platform and into the snow. Thankfully, it only rose up to his ankles. 

He reached the light, a cart that had been set aflame. The dying blaze resisted the snow and the wind, burning through the wood of the cart. _It must have been magic – the Venatori?_ Trevelyan bit his bottom lip in fear. _Had they pursued the Inquisition forces?_ He looked at the cart. The shafts where the reins of the horses would have been attached pointed towards the direction of the storm. Trevelyan groaned at the realization. _Walking against the gale. Wonderful._ His limbs rattled furiously, his spell not working nearly well enough. He turned and set off, marching through the frozen wilderness. 

___

 

The blizzard would impede their progress immeasurably. There were some among the group that likely wouldn’t make it through the night, no matter how much energy the mages might expend on trying to mend their wounds. Fiona had been admirable – the first time she’d actually shown leadership skills worth respect in Dorian’s estimation – in prioritizing who needed the help of the most apt healers, who could do with a respectable mending from those less skilled, and those who could receive little more than a meager charm to help ease their pain.

Barris had encouraged his troops to take what aid the mages could give to them, their numbers having been thinned considerably by the assault on Haven. When word reached his ears that the redheaded Templar had refused Dorian’s aid, he had a few choice words for her, pulling her to the side and reprimanding her. Dorian thought better than to sneak within earshot and savor in the talking-to she was receiving, largely because he’d received a talking-to of his own from Cassandra.

 _We don’t need you fermenting animosity. I know you are angry._ She had said.

 _Imagine that._ He’d interrupted her.

 _But_ , she continued, unfazed. _Do you think the Herald would want you causing trouble? He saved you for a reason, Dorian._

Dorian’s lips had drawn into an angry line. _You aren’t my mother, Cassandra._

 _Nor am I trying to be, if you would just listen to me before assuming that I’m attempting to chastise you._ He looked at her stern face. _He wouldn’t have been so adamant about keeping you safe if he didn’t see something in you worth saving. I know that you want to reform the Imperium, Dorian. Learn how to channel your frustration now. If one southern Templar can elicit that type of response from you, I can’t imagine how you’d fare against the entirety of the Magisterium._

Whoever would have thought that Cassandra would give such good advice? _Point taken, Lady Seeker. Let me get back to helping._ He’d said, as genuinely as possible. 

_Thank you, Dorian._

They’d managed to take refuge in a small valley nestled between several peaks. The mages managed to pull together several wards and barriers that would help to keep the worst of the blizzard out of the makeshift campgrounds, and Dorian had dedicated himself to checking their work for deficiencies. 

As he traced the perimeter of the campsite, he saw several of the mages – the one’s he’d encountered earlier in Haven, the teenagers who had invited him to dinner – gathered in a circle, holding each other.

“Hello, there.” Dorian offered a polite wave. They looked up to see who was speaking to him, and nodded their heads politely. They were in the process of sobbing. 

“What happened?” He asked. 

“We…” One of them started, before gasping for another breath. “Two of our friends – they were killed by those monsters. We just managed to escape, but they…” She’d broken down again. The auburn-haired elf boy was among them, his eyes turned away from Dorian. 

Dorian sighed. _What would Trevelyan do?_ He looked down, and put a hand on one of their shoulders. “I’m sorry for your loss. I know how hard this must be, but we don’t have time to grieve properly now.” His tried to inject as much sympathy into his voice as possible. They looked up at him, their eyes wide. A human boy with dark brown hair and olive skin looked up at Dorian.

“How can we help?” The others turned their heads towards him. 

Dorian thought to himself for a moment. Trevelyan slipped into his thoughts and he batted him away. 

“Let me explain to you why southern mages cannot properly prepare a ward.” He added, hoping that a bit of jest would lighten the mood. “Follow me around the campsite, and I’ll show you some techniques to improve your skills. That is why you’d invited me to dinner, is it not?” He asked, the jovial tone in his voice a stark contrast to the bitter feeling in his chest.

The auburn-haired elf grabbed his staff and stood up straight. “Alright,” he said, a little too eager. One of the girls giggled slightly and the display, and quickly corrected herself by clearing her throat and staring solemnly at the ground.

Dorian recognized the signs of a crush when he saw them. As they’d made their way around the campsite, he would point out weaknesses in the wards, and clarify how the mage who had cast it had done a piss-poor job. _They’d failed to warp the fade at the correct distance, so this ward isn’t layered properly. They’d dispelled the ambient energy too late, which makes the ward shudder until it collapses in on itself. Whatever idiot twisted the Veil like this is lucky it didn’t blow him clear across the campgrounds._ The elf stood at attention the entire time, drinking in each of Dorian’s words as though he were exposing the secrets of the universe to their small group. His other students were attentive, sure, but the elf was positively enraptured. 

He would show them the correct technique, guiding them through the steps, careful to focus squarely on the basics and not add too many of his signature flourishes – _these poor southern mages can only handle so much at once_ – and encouraged them to layer their own barriers on top of his. A little extra never hurt. 

They were quick studies, mimicking his motions dutifully. They must have been exceptional students, in whatever Circle they might have hailed from. Dorian was glad to have the distraction from all the thoughts that had consumed him during their seemingly endless hike. 

Haven was gone, and so many of their allies, buried underneath endless mounds of snow. All that was still visible was the roof of the Chantry, the tallest building in the hovel, before he’d turned and walked away. He had to stop himself from running down to the ruins and digging Trevelyan out with his bare hands. He shouldn’t have had to die. How would the Inquisition function without its hero?

Dorian had tried desperately not to think of Trevelyan, but he kept popping up every so often, the images filtering through Dorian’s mind one at a time. The Chantry at Redcliffe. The morning in the stream. The day when Trevelyan grabbed him in Haven. Kissing on the mountainside under the Breach. Lying against his chest in his bed.

It had been a rather brief affair, if it were anything at all. Trevelyan seemed intent on continuing, before he’d perished. Dorian hated to admit how much he like the idea, and he hated even more to admit how distraught he was now that the chance to pursue something with Trevelyan was snatched away from him. 

He had come to realize during their arduous hike that yes, things had been different with Trevelyan, because there was a possibility for more. This wasn’t Tevinter, with its taboos and its expectations. Trevelyan wasn’t afraid to grab Dorian in public, or steal a kiss in plain view. Even his goodbye in the Chantry had been so tender and kind. _You finally find someone who might, for once, want to keep you around, and then fate sends in an Archdemon and drops a mountain on his head._

Dorian broke himself from his reverie, and concentrated on the wards in front of him. They were sturdy. He looked around, and realized they had circled the camp. Their protections were sufficient – less snow was pouring in through the barriers, and the cold air was no longer as biting.

“Alright, then. Good work, you all. You should go check with Fiona, see if there isn’t anything else you can help with.” He smiled and bowed politely at the group. They returned the gesture, bowing deep with gratitude and respect. They all echoed some form of ‘Thank you, Master Pavus,’ before they ran along their way. 

He turned to go and find Cassandra, but he was stopped by a voice.

“Master Pavus?” 

He turned back to see the auburn-haired elf. He noticed the golden vallaslin that trailed like branches underneath his eyes and off towards his hairline, disappearing into his braids.

“Yes?” Dorian asked. “Forgive me, I didn’t ask for any of your names.”

“It’s okay. I’m Jarreth.” He offered politely. His cheeks were redder than the sky at sunset.

“Yes, well, pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jarreth.”

His blue eyes widened at the sound of his name coming out of Dorian’s mouth. He smiled sheepishly. “I just wanted to thank you for the lesson. I imagine you know so much more, having learned your skills in the Imperium.”

“You imagine correctly.” Dorian responded, his tone measured. He knew what Jarreth was after, and he was loath to give it, with Trevelyan’s face still imprinted in his mind.

“Well, I…” he chattered nervously. “I’d very much like to learn more. I mean, if that wouldn’t be too much of an imposition. If you’d be willing to teach me – us – of course. I’m sorry, that was presumptuous.”

“Not at all.” Dorian smiled. “But I think there may be some concerns, if a Tevinter Magister was running around, corrupting the impressionable youth.” The elf’s cheeks glowed red. _Kaffas._ “I’d have to speak with the leadership, and maybe we could establish some training for the southern mages. No blood magic or demon summoning, of course.”

“Of course!” he added, visibly flustered.

“Corypheus is a powerful foe, and we’ll need to use all the tools at our disposal to defeat him. However, this is a conversation for a later date. We have more pressing concerns.”

“Right. You’re right.” He offered, a little too quickly. He didn’t seem quite able to catch his breath.

“Well then, I’m going to find the Lady Seeker and see if there’s any further assistance I can provide. You ought to catch up with your friends. Good evening.” Dorian offered before turning around.

“Thank you, Master Pavus. Good night!” Jarreth called after him.

Dorian could have dragged the boy into a tent and had him praying to the Elven Pantheon for mercy if he’d been so inclined, but the knowledge brought him no comfort. He was still aching from the loss of Trevelyan. Maybe, if the Inquisition were to continue, Dorian could wind the lithe elf around his finger. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d dipped his toe in that pond. He’d even bedded a dwarf during an extended stay in the Anderfels, but immediately regretted it once he realized what hairy little creatures they were. 

Trevelyan had been smooth and clean, save for that trail that tapered down towards his cock, and even then, it was well maintained. He pried his mind from the thoughts of Trevelyan. _There’s no point in lingering, Dorian._ He felt that familiar ache in his chest, that dull, blunt hurt that never seemed to get any easier, no matter how many times it might happen. _He is gone, as are any possibilities attached to him._

Dorian sighed against the night air, watching his breath rise from his lips as he trudged through the camp, hoping to find someone, anyone, _even Vivienne_ , who might distract his thoughts with a task that required his attention. 

___

He’d lost track of how long he’d been wandering along the snow-covered trail. Every so often, he’d come across another piece of debris, an errant piece of wood, a discarded blade. He’d looked down at the sword, and he recognized the craftsmanship. _This is Harritt’s work._ He pushed himself forward, his legs burning against the strain. The storm had accumulated at an alarming rate, and the snow that once rose to his ankles quickly began to pile up further and further. His spells were fading, and the reserves of magic within him were draining quickly. He’d almost regretted the display on the shore of the lake in Haven – if he’d saved some of that power, he’d be as warm as a summer day. Shit, he could have melted half the snow on the mountain. 

_You did the right thing. Saving them was more important than saving yourself._

His father’s voice. Bann Trevelyan suffered indignities and injustice with a refined stoicism. He was a man of few words, no matter the circumstance – his toasts at family gatherings were notoriously brief, much like his eulogies at funerals. He carried himself as though the entire weight on the world bore down on his shoulders, and Gabriel one day realized he’d acquired that specific trait. Unfortunately.

Regardless of whatever he may or may not have received from Bann Trevelyan, he and Gabriel were never close. When he was younger, Gabriel had assumed that Bann’s distant frigidity was just a quirk of his nature, but it wasn’t until the clarity of retrospect gave him the proper insight and allowed him to see the truth. There was never a connection between them because nothing did connect them. He was not bitter or resentful of his father’s lack of proximity. Bann was a good man, noble and kind. His values imprinted on Gabriel from afar, as much as he might try to eschew them.

His mother was a different creature, entirely. Madeleine Trevelyan was the daughter of an Orlesian mother and a Marcher father. She had been raised in an estate in Starkhaven, the fourth of six children, and the second daughter. She was rebellious and decadent; always attempting to escape her studies for the sake of attending whatever party she could sneak her way into. She could charm most with her gregarious personality, and had done as much to his father, whom she was equally taken with. They wed hastily, after having met at a small fête thrown for some visiting Antivan dignitary that his mother had assuredly not been invited to.

Unfortunately, the simple rusticity of Ostwick wore on the woman, and days of excitement she’d lived for in Starkhaven seemed long gone, doubly so once she’d begotten her children. Without anything upon which to focus her immense energies, she’d turned them toward plotting the lives of her children before they’d even said their first words. 

Which was why she’d looked at Gabriel with such disappointment when he was taken away to the Circle. It was his fault that he’d been born a mage, as if he’d plotted how to best spoil her plans while still in the womb. He didn’t cry when he was taken to the Circle. In fact, he’d almost been relieved to be free of her smothering ways and her crushing expectations. _The grass is always greener, I suppose._

He hadn’t heard from them since well before the explosion at the Conclave. Josephine had made some effort to contact them, and they’d been vaguely responsive in offering their support for their “beloved son,” but Gabriel knew better. Without the Chantry’s seal of approval, his parents weren’t about to pledge their aid to or offer any vocal support for the Inquisition. 

He kept moving, his Barrier fading out. He pulled another one up around him. He wouldn’t be able to keep it up for much longer. The wind was unrelenting, the snow kept tumbling down, and his magic and body were fading fast. He caught sight of another piece of debris, half-buried in the snow: a piece of armor, bearing the insignia of the Inquisition.

_Fuck. Keep going._

His magic had now dwindled to the point where he couldn’t instantaneously replenish his Barrier each time it died out, and so he’d spend a few minutes steeling himself against the wind and ice before re-casting the Barrier and enjoying a few more moments of warmth.

 _I have to make it back to the Inquisition, he kept reasoning with himself._ Right now, it was all that mattered. He wondered what they would say, if he made it back. They’d probably chalk it up to the Maker, another miracle, more evidence that he was chosen, instead of a fluke. 

Corypheus seemed unconvinced, which was almost a relief to Gabriel. The Maker had supposedly spoken to Andraste; he’d been completely silent to Gabriel thus far. Without guidance, how could he possibly know whether or not anything he was doing was right? If he were just an accident, an ‘interloper,’ as Corypheus had dubbed him, well, at least he wasn’t disappointing the creator of everything with his stumbling. 

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder how his fortune seemed to have shifted so wildly. He was the only person to survive the Conclave. He had managed to bring the mage-Templar war to a standstill. He’d sealed the Breach. He’d survived an avalanche. He certainly wouldn’t be so foolish as to call his circumstances, ‘luck,’ because that would imply that any of these outcomes had been desirable, and considering the totality of the circumstances, each one had come at a price. 

He was the center of a spiraling whirl of events, and everything he’d done had been reactive. He’d followed his gut – when Cassandra had asked him for his aid in sealing the Breach, he’d said yes, but only because he’d realized there was no other option. He’d joined the Inquisition for much the same reason. Choice had been an illusion. He’d been set on a path, and all he could do was make the best of his unfortunate circumstances. 

_You’ve been set on a path. So how could it not be the Maker?_ Gabriel shuddered against the frozen wind. Why was it so hard to accept, even as a possibility? He’d been so ready to foreclose the idea the minute it rose in his mind. 

His concentration was broken for a moment, and the chill set into his body, reminding him why he’d been distracting himself with these thoughts in the first place. 

_I can’t accept that the Maker put me on this path because then, it would mean that I mattered, that I was meant for something greater._

That thought was colder than the freezing air around him. He sighed. He never wanted to be anything greater. All he wanted was his home by the sea, which seemed further away now than it ever had before, further than it had been when he was still wrapped in the trappings of his last name, or fixed behind the walls of the Circle. 

_None of that matters any longer. You have a duty, and you must fulfill that duty._

His father’s voice, again. His father had never been a particularly religious man, but had dutifully attended Chantry services and donated generously to its causes. _We have so very much, and want for so very little_ , he’d said. _The Chantry helps those who are unable to help themselves. If the Maker built this world, then we must help all those who populate it, and no order better serves that cause than the Chantry._

He’d wondered how much his father had believed his own words. It seemed like all the Chantry was interested in was self-preservation, but then again, his father had never had Gabriel’s vantage point of the political situation – standing beside the Left and Right Hands of the Divine, watching the Chantry flail about like a dying dragon. 

Still, the words were true. No group better served the needs of the people then, but the Inquisition could prove to be the better choice at present. And if they needed Gabriel? Who was he to deny them?

But how much of what he wanted was he willing to ignore? How could he live up to his title while still retaining some sense of himself? None of that would matter if he died on this mountain.

The snow began to let up, the visibility greatly improved, but the wind blew harder and colder against him. He moved his fingers, which had become numb, and slapped them against his legs, the painful burning a welcome sensation. 

_Keep going._

___

 

Dorian had busied himself with whatever menial task he could find. He didn’t care who was assigning it. Cassandra. Cullen. Leliana. He kept his hands busy and his mind occupied. It helped to numb the pain. He was tired beyond belief, but he dreaded the moment when he lied down on his bedroll and had time to think. He needed to burn himself at both ends, so when his head finally fell back on the hard ground, he would just drift off to sleep. Hopefully, he wouldn’t find himself back on the beach that he’d visited last night in his dreams. He couldn’t handle seeing Trevelyan again. 

_No. Focus._ Dorian continued with his task. He’d been erecting tents mindlessly, for the members of the Inquisition who were scouring the hills to make sure there was no sign of Corypheus’ forces. Thankfully, it seemed like their prior encounter and the burning cart was the last of the Red Templars and the Venatori.

It was easy enough to lose himself in the task, and his magic made it much easier. Lift tent, raise poles, pin edges, done. He’d managed to make it through about twenty when he saw Blackwall walking towards him. _This should be wonderful._

“Dorian.” He heard the Warden call towards him. His voice was somber. _Well, I can’t just ignore him._

“Blackwall.” Dorian said as cruelly as possible. _Take the hint, you lummox._

“Listen, Dorian. I am sorry.” He started in. Dorian sniffed harshly. “I tried to convince him, but he was adamant. He said his sacrifice would be worthless if he failed to save as many people as possible.”

“I am in no mood to hear this, Blackwall.” Dorian was completely exasperated, and his voice was laced with contempt.

“Dorian, you have to understand that there was no other choice. You would have killed Solas, had the avalanche –“ 

“Enough, Blackwall!” Dorian fumed. “You are not standing before me, trying to make me understand, not at all. _You_ want to make yourself feel better for your failure to protect him.” Dorian’s finger was pointed square at Blackwall, and every word brought it dangerously closer to his chest. “But you made the Herald a martyr. If you’d stayed, maybe it would have been different. Maybe Trevelyan would still be alive.”

“Or, the four of us could be buried underneath that avalanche.” Blackwall retorted, the anger beginning to rise in his voice.

“And what a loss that would be! A spirit boy, an apostate elf, and a Grey Warden. I’m sure you all would be terribly missed. That’s probably why he chose the three of you, because you were the most expendable of the bunch! And _you_ let him die! The only person we _needed!”_

_Well, Pavus. No coming back from that one._

___

 

It had been hours, now, that he’d wandered the path. The snow had stopped, but the night was long and the air was extraordinarily frigid. Every step seemed impossible, but he pressed on, lifting his legs up and slamming them down, unable to resist the pull of gravity on his feet. His magic had long since left him, and any Barriers he’d tried to cast were weak and feeble, only keeping the most gentle of breezes out of his face. His boots were soaked through and frozen, and his fingers had started to turn blue at the tips. 

It wouldn’t be much longer now, until he died. He hadn’t seen a piece of debris or proof that he was following anything for what seemed like ages. He felt the tears begin to well up in his eyes. 

_Maker, please. Take me if you must, but the Inquisition has to carry on. Corypheus cannot succeed._

His mind wandered listlessly. Cullen would assuredly be able to lead the forces without him, and Josephine could spin his death into an epic tale of martyrdom, gaining staunch allies against the ancient Magister in the process. Leliana and Cassandra still had sway in the Chantry, and might be able to swing the clerics to the side of the Inquisition, especially without the heretical Herald of Andraste getting the in way.

Bull and his Chargers would stay as long as their pockets were being lined, and Vivienne wouldn’t think of leaving until she could rest assured that Corypheus was dead and her part in his demise had reached the ears of every noble in Orlais. Gabriel could count on Blackwall to stay. If Corypheus was truly what he claimed to be – one of the Magisters responsible for unleashing the Blight upon the world – then Blackwall ought to be clamoring at the chance to repay him for all the Wardens who had been slain in the fight against the Darkspawn.

Cole’s position was tenuous, if only because everyone else seemed to react so poorly to the spirit – Cassandra, Cullen, and Vivienne would be more than happy to banish him to the Fade, and without Gabriel there to stand up for Cole, he was sure that he’d be gone in an instant. Sera’s standing was questionable as well – would her desire to help ‘the little people’ keep her in their ranks?

The mages and the Templars – the peace talks had been promising, the Breach had been sealed, and they’d stood alongside each other to defend Haven, but could it actually last? Gabriel pushed the thought away – if anyone was capable of mending that relationship and developing a plan for action, it would be Josephine. She was impartial and pragmatic. Her solution would be impeccable, if what she’d already accomplished during the talks was any indication. 

Varric would stay. He’d fought Corypheus before. The dwarf might have a propensity for spinning tales and massaging the truth with a generous hand, but he was honorable enough to stand by the Inquisition before, regardless of his protestations that Cassandra was holding him captive. Solas was so unknowable. He’d already fulfilled his role in helping to seal the Breach. The only way he would stay with the Inquisition was if he felt Corypheus posed a threat to his ability to lose himself in the Fade, in his dreams.

Trevelyan would have rolled his eyes if he had been able to expend the energy.

Which left Dorian. Warmth rose in Trevelyan’s chest, and he was grateful for the sensation. Dorian would stay, of this Gabriel was certain. If Corypheus was truly an ancient Tevinter Magister bent on assuming the seat of the Maker, then Dorian would fight until his last breath to stop him. He was a living, breathing icon of the rot that consumed the Imperium, the disease that Dorian was so eager to purge. 

He was so noble, so kind. Gabriel would have cherished the opportunity to explore the endless possibilities that stretched out between the two, for however long Dorian would have him. He had nothing to offer the Altus, other than himself, but maybe that would have been enough. He had never been so intrigued, but then Dorian was the most exotic of creatures, and he’d been unable to stop himself from giving chase, if only to get a closer look. Gabriel had been lucky enough to have stood close enough to touch, something he had considered an impossibility beyond his wildest dreams.

He was thankful he’d had the chance. The tears streamed down his cheeks.

He hoped he’d made everyone proud, and that he’d given the Inquisition the chance they needed to consolidate their forces and stand against Corypheus. He closed his eyes, and wiped the tears away with his frost-covered sleeve. 

When he opened them, he saw it – a small pit, a few pieces of scorched wood at the center, glowing dimly. Smoke rose from the dying flames. What was left of his mind exploded, and his breath quickened, pulling him from the brink.

_They can’t be far!_

His body screamed in agony. There was nothing left in him to fight the fatigue, no magic to shield him from the elements. All he had left was hope, which burned dimly in his sluggish mind like the embers in front of him.

He pushed himself, his limbs regaining their vigor momentarily, struggling to move him forward. _Just a little more. Just a little further. I have to._ He stumbled, the shadow of unconsciousness gripping at the edges of his blurred vision. He saw, in the valley in front of him, a sea of orange lights. Campfire. 

_It’s them._

He felt his legs give out from underneath him, and he cried out, his voice dry and broken. _No!_ The darkness was surrounding him, dragging him down. He tried with all his might to heave himself up, but nothing was working. _No!_ He had come so close, tried so hard. _NO!_

“There! It’s him!” He heard a voice call out. His hazy mind drifted, wondering why the voice sounded so familiar. _Cullen._

“Thank the Maker!” He heard the Seeker, her voice breathy and loud. 

His head tilted back toward the sky. The tears broke out in one, final sob. _You did it._

_Thank the Maker, indeed._

___

 

Blackwall’s brow was knitted over his fiery eyes. Dorian had gone too far, and he knew it, but he was much too enraged to care. All he wanted was for Blackwall to turn around and walk away, regardless of the damage he inflicted. 

A rush of noise distracted them both from their spat. Several Inquisition scouts were leading the charge, yelling unintelligibly. Their voices cut through the night air, which had grown quiet. He looked past them, and saw Cassandra and Cullen. The Iron Bull was trailing behind them, carrying a bundle of something in his arms. Dorian saw the shock of silvery blonde hair trailing over Bull’s arm, swaying with the motion.

_Trevelyan._

Dorian threw himself toward the group, running as quickly as his bloody legs would carry him. They were heavy with fatigue. _Trevelyan. He’s alive! How is this possible?!_ He felt the rush in his chest. _Thank the Maker._ He tried to move faster, but his legs could only take so much. _Venhedis!_

He’d gotten closer, and heard their shouts. 

“We need a tent! Any tent!” 

People were emerging from all corners of the camp, trying to figure out what was going on. They were impeding Dorian, his run slowing to a jog, as he maneuvered between the people that stood in his way, all of them trying to get a glimpse of what was going on. Dorian was still steeped in anger from his encounter with Blackwall. He kept pushing through the growing crowd. Cassandra and Cullen approached the center of the camp. Leliana and Cole were there to greet them. 

“It’s the Herald! He’s alive!” Cassandra shouted, her voice undercut with panic. “We need to get him in a tent, immediately!” 

_Damned unwashed masses, getting in my way._ Dorian kept pushing through, without any regard, to get to Trevelyan. He was sure he’d just shoved Fiona several paces to his left when he saw Cassandra guiding Bull into a large tent. He caught a glimpse of Trevelyan’s face. His lips were blue and his eyes were closed. Even inches from death, he was still so handsome. 

_He will not die!_

Dorian burst forth into a Fade Step. He heard the crowd screaming behind him as they were coated in frost, but Dorian had to make it to Trevelyan. _Maker knows what these southern barbarians will do to him. They don’t even understand the basics of healing magic. You’d think their pathetic Circles would have at least taught them that._

He reached Cassandra, who was calling for healers. 

“I’m here!” He sputtered, “Cassandra, I’m here. I can help.”

“Then go. Quickly!” Cassandra yelled. Dorian nodded.

“We need dry clothes. Have one of the mages warm them and bring them to us immediately!” Dorian shouted over his shoulder, as he opened the flap and entered the tent. 

Leliana and Bull were already inside. Cole was hovering in a corner. Bull was still cradling Trevelyan in his arms. Dorian couldn’t see his face.

“Cole! I need warm, dry bedrolls and blankets. He cannot be on the cold, wet ground. Get a mage to warm them, and quickly!” Dorian shouted. Cole stared at him for a moment, his eyes wide and watery, and he vanished into thin air. 

“We can’t remove his clothes just yet,” Bull muttered. “He has nothing to change into.” 

“I already spoke to Cassandra.” Dorian said, his hands moving rapidly, drawing as much power as he could to heat the tent. He had to be judicious; you had to warm someone in this condition slowly, or else the shock would kill them. Trevelyan had made it this far. Dorian would not be responsible for ending his life when he must have fought so hard to make it here. He looked around. The ground was bare. 

“Leliana, we can’t throw him on the ground. We need something on which we can put the warm blankets. A piece of wood, something.” 

“Alright,” she said, turning swiftly and marching out of the tent.

“Dorian?” A weak voice. _Trevelyan._ Dorian rushed to his side. His face was impossibly pale, and chunks of his hair were coated in ice. He wasn’t shivering, and his breath was shallow, but even. The situation was dire.

“Shhhh,” Dorian hushed him, pulling himself together, his tone kind and gentle. “It’s alright. Don’t speak.” He waved his hands over Trevelyan’s hair calmly. The ice began to melt away under the gentle heat. _Careful, Dorian. Slowly._

Trevelyan’s eyes gazed up, unfocused, rolling around gently in their sockets. _Kaffas. He was walking through the blizzard. How did he make it out of the avalanche?_ Dorian marveled at the near lifeless body in Bull’s arms. _None of that matters right now. Focus on your task._ Trevelyan sighed lightly, his eyes rolling back into his head. 

“No!” Dorian shouted. The noise brought him back, and he jerked slightly in Bull’s arms. “Stay awake, Gabriel. _Where is everyone?!”_

The flap of the tent opened, and Vivienne strolled into the tent, magicking a cot through the air. “Here, darling. This should be sufficient. The demon should be bringing the blankets any moment.” _Good to see she hasn’t warmed to Cole in the slightest._ As she spoke, the cot unfurled itself and rested down upon the ground next to Dorian. Cassandra burst into the tent with Josephine, their arms full of clothing. 

“We need to get him undressed, immediately.” Cassandra said. Dorian’s stomach turned at the idea of seeing the damage Trevelyan had suffered. If the frostbite had taken severely enough… well, Trevelyan might finally be rid of his marked hand. Dorian recoiled at the thought.

“Bull, here. Lay him on the ground, on top of your cloak. We can get him undressed, and then hoist him on to the bed once he’s in dry clothes.” Bull carefully lowered Trevelyan to the ground, the cloak that he’d be wrapped in unfurling on the floor. He looked so completely helpless, lying there, as Dorian pulled back to the cloak to reveal Trevelyan’s hands, which were pale and swollen. _Kaffas._ Dorian quickly worked his hand down Trevelyan’s body, watching as the snaps and buckles that held his robes in place came undone, snapping violently against the frost that coated them. 

Cole ducked into the tent. “We have the blankets.” Vivienne turned and grabbed several of them from his arms. “Thank you, darling.” She laid several on the cot, folding them over for extra padding. She waved her hand over them, heating them carefully.

Cassandra and Dorian were tearing away at Trevelyan’s clothing, while Bull helped to support his body. Trevelyan was too weak to assist in the procedure, and his limbs put up unintentional resistance.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel breathed out.

“Nothing to be sorry about, Boss.” Bull said. His tone was friendly and kind. Cassandra had managed to get his boots and socks off – his feet looked terrible, the leather of his boots having done little to keep the melted snow out. She gently moved up to pull his pants off his body. Dorian had finally managed to wrestle Trevelyan from his cloak and his shirt. His undershirt clung to his body, slick with moisture. Dorian grabbed the garment at the bottom and pulled violently, tearing it up the middle, until it was ripped up to his neck. Cassandra was gingerly pulling his pants past his knees, afraid of doing any damage to him. 

“Grab him by the shoulders and hoist him up, Bull.” Dorian commanded, and Bull silently obeyed, lifting Trevelyan gently. Dorian repeated him motion, tearing the back of Trevelyan’s shirt, peeling either half off his torso. 

His body was so cold underneath Dorian’s fingers. Dorian tried his best to push down the panic. Dorian moved down to remove Trevelyan’s smallclothes, praying to the Maker that nothing underneath had been damaged. Luckily, everything seemed in order, and Dorian quickly motioned to Josephine. “Grab a rag and make sure that he is dry. As gently as possible.” Josephine quickly handed rags out to Dorian, Bull, and Cassandra, and they all started working on his limbs, removing any ounce of moisture from his body. Josephine’s eyes were wide with panic – she’d obviously been fortunate enough to avoid these types of life-or-death situations – but she was performing her task admirably. Cassandra and Bull were stoic, hardened by battle, and this was just another fight they refused to lose. 

“Let’s get him on the bed before we put anything on him.” Bull suggested, and picked Trevelyan up tenderly, careful to support his head as if he were a newborn. He stood up, and carefully maneuvered Trevelyan onto the cot. The blankets and furs were sufficiently heated, and Trevelyan seemed to melt into the pile.

Dorian grabbed at the fresh pair of smallclothes, warm in his hands – _thank the mages later_ – and pulled them on to Trevelyan, whose body seemed to respond to the stimulus. _He’s going to be okay._ Vivienne had been silently watching over the group, her arms folded, her face unflinching. Her lips parted every so often, assuredly murmuring incantations to keep the air in the tent warm.

Cassandra and Josephine went to work, pulling socks over the Herald’s feet, and Bull raised him once again so that Dorian might slip his shirts over him. His limbs had begun to loosen up. _Thank the Maker._

They managed to get a pair of pants onto his stubborn legs. “Alright, then. Cover him with the rest of the blankets.” Cole dutifully marched forward with a fresh stack, and Vivienne helped Josephine pull blankets over Trevelyan, tucking them gently underneath his body. All that remained uncovered was his face, which poked out of the covers like a swaddled child. His eyes were closed, but his lips were tensed in a slight smile. 

Dorian stepped back for a minute, his arms folded as his chest rose and fell anxiously. Josephine had begun pacing back and forth in small circles, wringing her hands. Cassandra stood tall, but the Seeker was unable to mask her emotion. Bull remained kneeled down by the Herald’s side. Vivienne rested a hand on Trevelyan’s head for a moment. “My darlings, I’m afraid we’re not out of the woods quite yet. He’s still cold as ice.” 

“I thought you of all people would be proud of me,” Gabriel croaked, his smile pulling over his teeth. He chuckled lightly at his own joke. Dorian felt the weight slide off his shoulders. They all breathed a collective sigh of relief, and smiled down at Trevelyan. They stood for a moment in silence, listening for the sound of Trevelyan’s breath, which began to even out underneath the heated covers. It seemed as though the worst was over. The Herald would live to see another day. _From Herald, to martyr, to miracle._

“Well, if the Herald still has his sense of humor, I think he will survive.” Cassandra snarked. “Still, we ought to have someone here to watch him, to make sure that his condition continues to improve.” She turned to look at Dorian. 

“Very well, then. Josephine, I expect that my stipend will reflect my handling of this burdensome task?”

Her eyes rolled ever so slightly. “Once we have coffers, and the gold to fill them with, I’ll be sure to pad your pay with a few extra sovereigns.” 

“Ignore him, Josie. Time with me is reward enough!” Trevelyan insisted, unmoving underneath the blankets. They all laughed politely. 

“Take care, my dear. Rest and recover your strength.” Vivienne said, pressing a hand on Trevelyan’s shoulder lightly. Dorian felt the pull of the Fade around her, and wondered what little charm she might be casting on the Herald.

“Rest easy, Boss,” Bull called over his shoulder as he left the tent, holding the flap for Vivienne. Cassandra moved to his side, and Josephine followed.

“Cassandra. Corypheus, he-“ Trevelyan began.

“Not now, Herald. This can wait.” She said. She bowed respectfully. 

“All that matters now is that you regain your strength.” Josephine added. “We will leave you to your rest.” She turned to leave. Cassandra followed, turning towards Dorian before she left the tent. 

“If anything happens…” she trailed off.

“I will alert the remainder of the Inquisition forces, rest assured.” Dorian nodded. She smiled kindly and left. 

There had been a small stool in the corner of the tent that had gone unnoticed up to this point. Dorian grabbed it, and moved it to Trevelyan’s side. He sat down upon it. He stared down at Trevelyan, whose eyes cracked open and rolled lazily toward Dorian, and smiled. 

“I’m sorry.” He said. 

“Sorry for what, exactly? Refusing my aid? Dropping a mountain on your head? Nearly freezing to death?” Dorian asked. 

“All of it.” He laughed slightly, before he looked at Dorian again. “I just did what I thought was best. I didn’t want anyone else to die on my behalf.” His face became somber, his eyes widening. “How many died? In Haven?” He started to move underneath his blankets. 

“No, no, no. Stop moving!” Dorian commanded. Trevelyan was visibly distressed, and Dorian was afraid he could provide no comfort. “It could have been worse. Your little show at the beginning helped to slow their troops down.”

“How many?!” Trevelyan yelled, pleading with Dorian for an answer.

“Gabriel, we aren’t sure yet. I don’t think Leliana has taken a proper count, and if she doesn’t know, then no one here does.” Dorian said, pushing Trevelyan’s shoulders back into place, leaning over him. Once he stopped squirming, Dorian removed his hands from his shoulders, and started to delicately stroke Gabriel’s cheek. The color was beginning to return, slowly but surely. His lips were horribly chapped and cracked, but underneath the broken skin, they were a soft pink. Dorian waved a finger over them and watched as the skin patched itself together gently.

Trevelyan pressed his lips together to test them. “Thank you,” he breathed. His eyes were still heavy with tension.

“You shouldn’t worry about anything other than yourself right now. You can’t fix anything in your present condition.” Trevelyan started to protest, but Dorian stopped him. “Stop being a stubborn ass for a moment, would you?” 

Trevelyan’s eyes fought Dorian for a moment, and then surrendered, finally relaxing. The sadness still lurked behind them. Dorian wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t reverse his efforts to calm him down, and the last thing Trevelyan needed was to be agitated. His hand rested against Trevelyan’s head, rubbing a piece of the silvery-blond in between his thumb and forefinger. 

“How are you feeling?” Dorian asked. 

“Better,” Treveylan murmured. “I’ve been all but certain I was going to die far too many times in the past day.” He looked ahead, his eyes listless and his tone flat. “The Breach, Corypheus, the avalanche, freezing to death.”

“You’ve certainly had your fill.” Dorian stared off into space. 

“You know, this time yesterday, we were asleep in my bed in Haven.” His voice had become wistful. “It seems so long ago, now, after everything that’s happened.” The memory reared hazily in the back of Dorian’s mind.

“We’re both alive for the moment, and we ought to be thankful for that small favor.” Dorian returned his gaze to Trevelyan, who nodded grimly. 

“I wish the cot was big enough for the both of us. You’re probably exhausted.” 

“I’m fine, thank you for your concern. Even so, it’s probably for the best that the cot is small. How is the Mark?” Dorian tried changing the conversation. Trevelyan needed the blood to flow to all of his extremities, not just the one.

“Oh, it’s not the Mark anymore. Corypheus called it the Anchor. Said he’d ‘crafted it to assault the heavens.’” Trevelyan said, his voice rumbling low in his chest. He closed his eyes. The memory of Haven must have flashed through his mind, because his face became pained for a moment. “He tried to take it from my hand, but apparently, it can’t be removed.”

“Well, that’s good news, I suppose.” Dorian said. 

“I don’t want to talk about it much more. I’m going to have to tell Cassandra and Cullen and Leliana and Josephine, so I’d like to minimize my need to repeat it. I’m sorry.”

“No, I understand. Just lie back and relax.” Dorian said. He rubbed a hand on the Herald’s cheek, which responded with a flush. _Good_ , Dorian thought. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to check your hands and feet, so we can find out whether or not your get to keep all your fingers and toes.”

“Please.” Trevelyan said, his head sinking back into the cot. Dorian pulled back the covers gently, wincing with anticipation. He peeked down towards Trevelyan’s hand, and was happy to find it looking pink and healthy, if not a bit swollen. He reached out to gently grasp it, to get a sense of whether or not it had begun to warm. It was cold, clammy, but not frigid like it had been when Dorian had first touched it. 

“Can you move it for me? Don’t push yourself, just flex your fingers gently.” He watched as Trevelyan wiggled his hand around, carefully balling his hand into a fist. “That’s good, very good. I don’t think there’s any lasting damage.”

He re-covered Trevelyan’s side, and repeated the process with his feet and his other hand. He gazed at the Mark – the Anchor – in his palm. He’d never really took the time to look at it before this moment. Not for a lack of curiosity, of course, but the opportunity had never presented itself. It glowed gently in his hand, flickering with the beat of Trevelyan’s heart, a jagged green scar cutting across the center of his palm. Dorian felt it coursing with raw power, and remembered how it had made his head spin back in Haven. He promised himself to study it further. 

“I forgot to mention,” Trevelyan started, his fingers moving to catch Dorian’s. Dorian resisted the action, intent on studying the Anchor. “It did something new. A field of energy that tears apart demons.”

“That seems like it would be useful.” Dorian’s eyes remained focused on the Anchor, wondering if he might get a peek at the secrets it contained within, but no such luck. “You ought to get some rest.” Trevelyan’s hand would not be quelled, and he grabbed at Dorian’s, lifting himself off the bed. His hand reached behind Dorian’s head and pulled him down toward his lips, and kissed him softly. Dorian resisted, if only momentarily, before surrendering himself to the motion of Trevelyan’s mouth against his. Trevelyan pulled their faces apart, his lips sticky with saliva.

“I’m sorry. I’ll lie down now, I promise. I just needed that.” Trevelyan lay back down, his face apologetic. Dorian would have bothered feigning some variation of disappointment or indignation, but he was glad to have the taste of Trevelyan on his tongue, when he’d been so convinced he would never taste him again. He walked back to the stool, and stood for a second, before leaning over to kiss Trevelyan once more. He never would have allowed himself this weakness, but to be fair, he had been convinced that Trevelyan had died. Wasn’t this celebration reason enough to indulge?

He pulled back, unwillingly, and sat upon his stool. Trevelyan’s eyes were still closed. Dorian watched as his chest rose and fell gently underneath his covers. Dorian’s eyes wandered back to Trevelyan’s face. “This feels like a second chance,” Trevelyan said, his eyes fluttering open lightly. “Maybe I can do better. Be better.” He sighed heavily.

“The key word there is, ‘maybe.’ As in, ‘maybe you ought to worry about all this tomorrow, or I’ll go fetch Cassandra and have her put you to sleep.’”

“You need to sleep, too. You look about ready to keel over yourself.” Trevelyan said, smirking at Dorian.

“I am absolutely content to sit here an…” Dorian felt the yawn ripple up through his esophagus, and tried mightily to suppress it, but he just didn’t have the energy. Trevelyan cocked his eyebrow. “Sit here and make sure that you are still alive.”

“And you say I’m stubborn. Fine then, suit yourself.” Trevelyan pulled the top cover off of his body and threw it at Dorian playfully. “I’m burning up under these covers. In case you decide to rest, I’m sure you’ll need a blanket.”

Dorian folded the fabric with a flick of his wrist, and laid it next to Trevelyan on the cot. “Go… to… sleep,” he said, each word a staccato command.

“Goodnight, Dorian. And thank you, again.” 

“Sleep well, Gabriel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I said, somewhere, that it would take thirteen chapters to get to Skyhold. And then I started writing this. And then 14,000 words later, I realized I probably should break this chapter up. So Fourteen chapters until Skyhold.
> 
>  
> 
> _Kaffas._
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, yeah. Stuff happens. I initially planned on separating their perspectives more distinctly, but interspersing them amongst each other made more sense, I think, in the long run.
> 
> You'll get a bit more of Trevelyan's perspective after this, and then not much more of it for a while. So savor that twisted little cruller while you can!
> 
> Also, where did Dorian learn to treat hypothermia so well, considering Tevinter by all accounts is relatively warm? From his time in the Anderfels, which were miserable. He comments that Weisshaupt was a shithole, or maybe that was Kirkwall. Dorian thinks everywhere is a shithole, so no surprise there.
> 
> Threads that I laid out in earlier chapters will start tying themselves back together shortly, my dears. I hope the payoff is worth it.
> 
> And thank you, again, for all the lovely comments and kudos and everything! I read every single word and often find myself going back when I hit a rough spot, and they help get me through!


	14. The Chant and the Frostbacks

Gabriel woke up in a daze, his eyes cloudy with sleep. The tent was dark, but he could tell that it was light outside its makeshift walls. He turned his head to the side, and saw Vivienne sitting next to him, carefully reading through a thick tome. He’d recognized it as one of the books he’d managed to recover from the Hinterlands, at her behest. He grunted lowly and stretched out his limbs. The tingle in his fingers was sharp, but he was glad for any sensation at all. 

“A gripping read?” He grumbled in her direction.

“In a stroke of dramatic irony, this particular volume contains valuable information on healing spells and charms, with a chapter dedicated to treating hypothermia.” She didn’t look up from the text until she’d finished her sentence. She closed the book and leaned towards him, putting the back of her hand on his head. “You feel a bit clammy.”

“Not to be vulgar, but I’m positive I’ve sweat through whatever it is you dressed me in.” 

“Not vulgar at all, darling. Wait here a moment.” She stood and moved to the tent flap, poking her head out. A stream of light poked into the tent. He heard her speaking to someone on the other side. “Please fetch the Herald a fresh pair of clothes, and something to eat. Thank you, my dear.”

She returned to his side. “You have performed an impossible feat: you have seemingly risen from the dead.”

“But I never died.” He said.

“Oh darling, _we_ know that,” she said dismissively, “but to the members of the Inquisition, your continued survival is nothing short of a miracle, a sign that the Maker may be shining his favor upon Thedas once more. If there were any doubts as to whether or not you’d been chosen by Andraste before, I should think this most recent feat will put them all to bed. You now command a legion of devoted followers, who believe our fight against the Elder One has been ordained by the Maker himself.” 

Gabriel tried to absorb everything she was saying, but his mind was still plagued with sleep, and his skull was particularly impermeable. The words floated around the tent in a disjointed haze, and he had to shake them free. _Holier than ever, I suppose._

“Where’s Dorian?” he asked. 

“I relieved him several hours ago. I found him slumped over on your cot, his head pressed against your cheek. I had more difficulty removing him from your tent than I have banishing demons to the Fade. He looked positively dreadful.” Gabriel grinned at the thought of a bed-headed Dorian being shoved out of the tent by Vivienne. He wondered how many Tevene curse words Dorian had used in the process of being expelled. Vivienne caught sight of Trevelyan’s smile, and it looked as though she might open her mouth to speak, but thought the better of it. 

The tent opened up, and Cassandra came in clutching a small plate. “There is not much in the way of food, Herald, but this is better than nothing. I trust you are feeling better?” He sat up in his cot and took the plate from her. A bit of ram’s meat and some green vegetables. It was no Orlesian feast, but it would suffice. He looked up at the Seeker.

“Thank you, Cassandra. I am alive, and everything seems to be in working order. How is everything out there?”

“Everything is fine.” She was an unconvincing liar, but he thought better than to push the issue. 

“So, I’m assuming you want to hear exactly how I managed to survive an avalanche?” Gabriel asked, trying to bring some levity to the situation. 

“That, and whatever you might have learned during your encounter with Corypheus.” Cassandra responded, all business.

“Alright, then. I suppose we ought to rally the Inner Circle. The tent should be big enough, so long as Bull ducks down.” 

“Certainly. I will go and fetch them.” Cassandra turned and left. Vivienne had resumed her prior position, seated on the stool, flipping through her book. Trevelyan looked down at his meal. He wasn’t the least bit hungry, but he knew that several parties would raise serious objections if he failed to clean his plate. He grabbed a piece of stringy ram meat and popped it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing in spite of the gamey flavor. 

They streamed in, one by one. Josephine and Cullen arrived first, looking completely worn down. Solas followed, quickly establishing his position in a corner of the tent, leaning upon his staff. Blackwall, Bull, and Varric entered together, Bull gingerly moving about the already packed tent before seating himself beside Vivienne, his horn accidentally knocking into book. She sighed heavily and closed the tome, setting it gently on her lap. Sera dove into the tent, followed hastily by Cole, who seemed confused. He tried to sit next to her, but she immediately moved herself away from the spirit, a look somewhere between disgust and fear plastered on her face. Leliana and Cassandra entered, with Dorian close in tow, his hair slightly disheveled, and his shirt only half-buckled. He yawned fiercely, and Gabriel couldn’t help but stare at him with adoration. Dorian caught Trevelyan’s errant glance, and turned his head to finish his yawn, before smiling warmly at Trevelyan.

The tent was packed to the brim, and Trevelyan wondered whether such a crowded briefing had been a wise choice. He had finished his meager meal in the time it had taken them to all file in, and he set the plate on the ground next to him. He rubbed the errant flecks of food off his hands, and clapped them together to get everyone’s attention. He looked up to find them all staring at him intently. _I suppose that was unnecessary._

“Solas, I’m assuming you told them everything leading up to your departure?”

“They have been informed, Herald.” Solas responded cooly.

“Alright, then. I suppose we should start with the Archdemon knocking me on my ass.” 

___

 

Dorian hadn’t been able to fall back asleep after Trevelyan’s tale, eventually deciding to wander around the grounds aimlessly, as night fell over the camp. Corypheus, one of the Magisters responsible for ripping open the Fade and unleashing the Blight upon the world, and he’d almost succeeded in repeating the feat. He would have assumed the seat of the Maker, and turned Thedas into a nightmare – Dorian had seen what his success would mean with his own eyes in that dark future in Redcliffe.

 _And Tevinter rides in to bring doom upon all the world once again!_ How fitting that the Imperium’s original sin would come swooping down on an Archdemon to remind everyone just how awful and corrupt that it was. _And is, to this day. Kaffas._ Dorian was positively enraged at the news. Any goodwill that he’d managed to personally build for his homeland – and Dorian was under no illusion that he’d made much headway in that regard – would be blasted to shit by Corypheus, his Venatori army, and his _fucking Archdemon._

_Kaffas!_

His claim that the throne of the Maker was empty upon his arrival in the Golden City was the kind of blasphemy that would require fainting chaises for half the members of the southern Chantry. Certainly, the Chant of Light had inspired quite a fair amount of exigesis amongst scholars, but any that had made suggestions that veered too far left-of-center would have been immediately silenced. The Chantry had no qualms about striking several controversial Canticles from the Chant, forbidding the Dissonant Verses from further study. 

But Corypheus’ tale presented a revisionist history that made even Dorian queasy. Surely, the Chantry would never claim that the Maker was seated on his throne in the Golden City, bound in corporeal form, but the idea that the Maker's light did not permeate the Golden City before it was corrupted by the hubris of the Tevinter Magisters was a massive deviation from the accepted scripture. If the Maker's presence had never graced the Golden City, then had his favor ever shone upon Thedas? So many things were called into question by Corypheus’ claim. If the Maker wasn’t the one who unleashed the Blight upon the world for the sins of Dorian’s forebears, then who or what was responsible? If the Blight was not the work of the Maker, then what exactly was it? Some sort of illness, magical or mundane? 

And where would these answers lie? Somewhere in Thedas, or beyond its boundaries? The idea of the Black City floated around Dorian’s mind, and he immediately closed that door. _Nothing good has ever come from Tevinters entering the Fade, and I highly doubt that anything ever would_. The Black City was the logical endpoint of a number of debates in Dorian’s mind, in that once his questions lead him there, they were immediately quashed. Even still, Dorian thought, if the Black City is where the Blight originated, there must be some answers that still lay within its walls. Answers that no mortal might ever lay their eyes upon. 

_Rightly so, Pavus. No matter how tempting the answers that lurk beyond its gates might be._

Corypheus posed so many questions, questions that seemed to evade the majority of the Inquisition, largely due to the more pressing issues at hand – they were currently sitting in the middle of nowhere, with no clear plan as to how to proceed. Josephine, Cullen, Leliana and Cassandra had argued well into the night, and had finally ground each other to a standstill. How could the Inquisition continue on when no clear path presented itself? The Inquisition had succeeded in so many ways, but after the crushing defeat at Haven, could they resume their prior momentum?

Luckily, they knew the next steps of Corypheus’ plan – to raise a demon army that would sweep across Thedas, and to assassinate Empress Celene, whose grasp on Orlais was faltering as civil war raged within her Empire. Dorian wondered how active Corypheus had been in fanning those flame. Civil unrest would decimate the Orlesian army, which would pave the way for the demon army to sweep across Orlais with little effort. If Orlais fell, no other nation in Thedas would stand a chance against Corypheus. How could the Inquisition and their salvaged Herald foil these plans in its current state?

Trevelyan stood at the center of everything – the man who had seemingly been shoved into the fore by the hand of the Maker himself for the sake of perpetually foiling Corypheus’ plans. Haven may have fallen, but the Herald rose in the wake of the destruction, the stars seemingly aligned in his favor. Gabriel had done so much, and yet, so much more was left for him to do, a seemingly impossible array of tasks, leading up to an eventual showdown against a would-be god who, in his own words, would not suffer a rival.

Trevelyan had hardly seemed a rival, bruised and broken and curled up the night before, underneath the blankets of the cot where he lied. Corypheus had strutted to the front of the cliff that overlooked Haven with bravado, nary a care for the followers who had died fighting in his name. Trevelyan’s burdens weighed on his posture, his shoulders rolling forward ever so slightly, the sway of his arms a little less jaunty when reality came crashing down upon him. Corypheus had been crafting his plan carefully for years – maybe even centuries – and Trevelyan was unable to do much more than resolve problems as they rose before him. 

The Herald continued to surprise and astound, but all of his plans seemed to have the same fatal flow – namely, his own mortality. Trevelyan was all too willing to throw himself headlong into danger without any regard for his own survival. Dorian was unsure where exactly this urge to get himself killed sprang from – it was an instinct Dorian was completely unfamiliar with, having been raised in Tevinter. Was it Trevelyan’s deep sense of duty to others? Or just an overarching need to escape from the fate that had been sealed in his palm?

Trevelyan certainly wasn’t as noble as Cassandra seemed to think he was – but then again, she hadn’t had the exquisite pleasure of Trevelyan’s cock sliding itself inside her. Sure, he was kind and performed his perceived duties admirably, but there was a streak of rebellion in there, somewhere, and Dorian was eager to tease it out. Once Trevelyan had healed, and the Inquisition managed to sort itself out, of course.

Dorian thought back to less than a day ago, when he’d said a premature goodbye to Trevelyan, staring out over the ruins of Haven. What other choice was there, in that moment? His death seemed all but assured. Now, however, all the possibilities that had vanished underneath all the snow had reappeared. Trevelyan clearly wanted to explore them further. 

Dorian had struggled with his feelings for Trevelyan, mostly because everything had seemed so tenuous, as if it could all have been ripped away at any given moment, as it very well nearly had been. It seemed like that might always be the case, at least as long as Corypheus lived. Dorian had to come to some sort of decision, whether or not he wanted to pursue anything with Trevelyan. 

_You know what you want, Pavus, you’re just too stubborn to admit it._ The image that had haunted his mind the most frequently during the short time he’d thought Trevelyan had indeed perished was the warm gaze Trevelyan had given him when they’d woken up together in that bed in Haven, the smell of Trevelyan’s body, the soreness in his hips that only made him want more. 

_Kaffas. So be it. An Archdemon can rip off his head tomorrow, so long as we get to enjoy today._

Dorian was unsure of what Trevelyan truly wanted – it was far too early to broach that specific topic and spoil all the fun – but Dorian was more than happy to let him take the lead. Trevelyan was the one who was caught up in all the trappings of his title, the leader of the faithful, the phoenix risen from the ashes, the beacon of hope for all of Thedas – whether the Thedosians realized or not. Dorian would be more than happy to continue this dance, until Trevelyan grew tired and brought the song to an end. Still, the way that he’d been so insistent on kissing Dorian in that tent…

_Don’t get your hopes up, Pavus._

A voice chimed in, competing against the other. _The man has survived impossible odds. Maybe he is something worth hoping for._

Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian saw Trevelyan emerge from his tent. He stood for a moment, awash in the light of the moon and the campfire, silver and gold and glorious. His hair rebelled, fluttering in the wind, the hypnotic undulation that no painter or sculptor would be able to accurately capture, when they came to carve the image of the Herald into perpetuity. 

He saw Trevelyan move forward toward Cassandra, Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana, who were all turned away from each other, too angry to continue their debate. Trevelyan stood before them; his shoulders slumped, his feet shuffling nervously. He stared at the ground, his face pulled taut in a grimace. 

Before Dorian had left the tent after their meeting, he had personally checked upon Trevelyan. Gabriel had suffered Dorian’s poking and prodding graciously, but the severity of their situation had worn him down. He was still exhausted, and soon fell back to sleep. The harsh lines that had commanded his face had melted away into a peaceful tranquility. If only he could have remained there, for a few moments longer. _What lies in the dreams of our Herald_ , he had wondered, _that brings him peace?_

Dorian heard a voice rising, quietly at first, the words unintelligible, but to a tune that was easily recognizable to every Andrastian across Thedas. He watched as Mother Giselle strolled forth from behind the Herald, her voice coming from deep within her diaphragm, a soulful alto that spoke to how much of the world and its people the woman had seen. Dorian hadn’t had much in the way of interaction with her, save a polite introduction to the Revered Mother and a handful of perfunctory greetings thereafter. He couldn’t imagine what he’d have to discuss with such a staunch disciple of the Chantry, when he’d so readily toss the entire institution into the privy. 

Her voice was soon joined by another: a delicate, whistling soprano, which rose into the sky and pierced through the air. Leliana may have many names, but in this moment, none seemed as appropriate as Nightingale. The words began to take form over the melody, as more voices began to join them. Dorian turned, to see the members of the Inquisition, the mages, the Templars, the entirety of the camp as it moved toward the sound, and he soon found his feet carrying him along towards the growing crowd. 

He couldn’t help but feel something deep swelling from within him. Very rarely is one witness to events that shape history, the moments that singularly define a movement. His gaze shifted instinctively from one face to the next, but they all portrayed the same sentiment, fixed in adulation upon the Herald. He may not have risen from the dead, but as far as any of them were concerned, his elevation was the work of the Maker’s hand. They came before him in reverence, not only to the man before them, the man who represented the sublime will of the Maker, but to the Maker himself, whose favor they were so desperate to reclaim.

Dorian looked at Trevelyan, who stood near the opening of his tent, his shoulders squared out towards the people who gathered before him. _You certainly are a man of discerning taste, Pavus._ He wasn’t sure if he was praising or admonishing himself. _The Herald of Andraste, lifted from the shackles of mortality, stepping forth from the destruction, exalted by the Maker, bathed in the fire that consumed Haven, and in the ice that now covered it._ His heart beat warmth throughout his body. _You could have chosen worse._

He turned his head, and saw Cole kneeling over Roderick, who had held out for much longer than Dorian had expected, but apparently for no more. Cole brushed his hand over the Chancellor’s face, closing his eyes. Dorian continued his march toward the swelling song that rose over all the tents and rang clear and true against the mountainside, echoing off its frozen walls and transforming the melody into a haunting, otherworldly symphony. 

_The night is long._

Even Cullen had joined in the singing, his eyes closed, absorbing the words that were coming out of his mouth. Cassandra mouthed the words alongside him, her eyes full of reverence and respect, and Josephine was not far from her, hands clasped together delicately in front of her waist. Dorian continued to move forward, slowly filing into the clearing at the center of the campgrounds.

_And the path is dark._

Iron Bull stood off in the corner, his arms folded, leaning against a cart, his mouth unmoving, his eye searching over the crowd, before looking down to his side, where Varric stood in a similar pose. Dorian would have bet Varric a thousand sovereigns that this scene would somehow find its way into his next novel. Sera, seated on the edge of the cart, sang along absentmindedly, her mouth moving up and down in time. 

_Look to the sky._

Vivienne stood, poised as ever, near the entrance to a tent, standing alongside both Ser Barris and Grand Enchanter Fiona. None sang, but all watched the spectacle intently. Dorian could have sworn he saw the slightest twinkle of pride in Vivienne’s eyes. Blackwall stood amongst the crowd, his back to Dorian. Dorian hadn’t yet worked up the requisite amount of mettle to apologize to Blackwall for his earlier behavior. Solas was nowhere to be found. 

_For one day soon._

Trevelyan gazed up for an instant, and saw Dorian. His face melted into a sorrowful expression, and he looked down towards his feet. Dorian wondered what was going through his mind. It seemed as though he wouldn’t have to wonder long. Trevelyan’s gaze returned to Dorian, a small smirk plastered on his face, his eyes twinkling.

 _Maker take me_ , Dorian thought.

_The dawn will come._

___

 

_Facing down Corypheus and the Archdemon was less nerve-wracking than this._

Trevelyan stood in awe at the group that had gathered, standing or kneeling in front of him. They were legion, and he was their sole focus. The way they all looked at him, as if he were some sort of idol, unnerved him greatly. Yet he stood tall and proud, even though on the inside he wanted nothing more than to shrink away to nothing. There were countless reasons to panic underneath the pressure that was mounting upon him, but one reason sprung up over the others: Trevelyan felt like a fraud. _I did not come back from death. I was not sent by Andraste. I am not what you all need._

He thought about Mother Giselle’s words to him before: _That is hard to accept, no? What we have been called to endure? What we, perhaps, must come to believe?_

The people standing before him had accepted, they had endured, and they believed. They looked up at him expectantly for some sign from their Herald. 

_I just don’t see how what I believe matters_ , he had said to Mother Giselle. Maybe the Chant was her way of showing him exactly how mistaken he was. He reached down within himself and gathered up whatever faith remained inside. He looked up, out into the crowd, his eyes coming to rest on a familiar face. 

_Dorian._ Trevelyan thought for a moment about the Tevinter mage, and what it would mean for all the possibilities that might have existed between them. If he were to truly embrace his role, would all of that vanish? If he assumed the role of the Herald, how could anything between them work?

And it dawned on him, a beacon of light breaking over the horizons of his mind. He had spent his entire life with the burden of expectations hanging over his head. He had to be a respectable Trevelyan, like all of the Trevelyans that had come before him. He had to be an obedient Circle mage, like all of the Circle mages that had come before him.

But there had never been a Herald before him. Surely, everyone had ideas about what a Herald ought to be, but here they all were, kneeling before him, rededicating themselves to the Inquisition, to Trevelyan. The mistake he had made was thinking that their ideas were binding, in the way that all the other roles he’d been forced to assume had been. They believed in Trevelyan because of every success, and in spite of all his failings. He’d made plenty of choices before this, and would have to make many after, and still, they remained. Certainly, the perception that he was chosen by Andraste inspired devotion, but had he proven to be a tyrant, would they have stayed? 

He was the Herald, and he was Gabriel. The two weren’t mutually exclusive. 

The sadness that had clutched at him vanished, and he looked up to Dorian, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, his eyes crinkled in joy. 

Trevelyan raised his fist to his chest, and bowed his head dutifully to the crowd. _We’ve all fought so hard to get here. I will not let any of you down._

___

 

The Chant had renewed the vigor of the people, who were chomping at the bit to find a new home, where the Inquisition might lay down its roots and grow, spreading across Thedas. Trevelyan had charted their course of action – north, through the Frostbacks – and the next morning at the ass-crack of dawn, they gathered everything they had salvaged from Haven and began to make their way towards their uncertain destination. Solas remained plastered to Trevelyan’s side; helping to guide their forces to the uninhabited castle he claimed lied somewhere on the mountains’ frozen peaks. 

There had been miserably little in the way of private time with Trevelyan, and considering the seriousness of their mission, this came as no surprise. Trevelyan had been warm and tender, teasing Dorian and stealing kisses where he might, a quick visit to Dorian’s tent or a brief conversation when they stopped for a meal. 

_I heard that you were educating some of the mages_ , he’d said.

 _I prefer the term, ‘enlightening.’ Considering the Circles have kept you all bound in the darkness for so long_ , Dorian had quipped in response.

 _Oh, really? And how many virgin sacrifices did this enlightenment require?_ Trevelyan had laughed at his own wit. 

_My dear Herald, are you that naïve? You don’t start with the virgin sacrifices. You have to ease them into it. A pinprick of their own blood here, a dagger to the forearm of an unwilling participant there, and before you know it, your troops will be slaughtering each other, all for a little more power. I’m sure you’re familiar with the old maxim. ‘You can take the Magister out of Tevinter…’_

_But you can never get the bloodstains out of his robes._ Trevelyan had improvised, Dorian had laughed heartily.

During one of their brief chats, Trevelyan had asked him about the orb that Corypheus wielded. He’d confided that Solas had the said the orb was of Elvhen origin. Dorian’s mind raced at the revelation – he’d been positive he’d seen depictions of the ancient Tevinters, from a time long before the Magisters, holding similar artifacts. The small sense of relief he felt from discovering that his ancestors were not responsible for the creation of an object of such power was immediately quashed when he remembered that, regardless of its origin, the orb was being wielded by a Tevinter Magister. 

Certainly, Thedas had proven it was capable of hating plenty of people at once.

Solas seemed to know much, or at least a sufficient amount that Trevelyan trusted his counsel, dragging the Inquisition north through the mountains to reach some long-abandoned fortress that could house the Inquisition. The elf clearly had spent many nights traversing the Fade and uncovering secrets long since lost to mortal men. Dorian had developed a reserved respect for Solas, but could never shake the feeling that behind his somber eyes, he was hiding something. An apostate elf, conveniently materializing out of thin air immediately after the explosion of the Conclave, able to keep the Anchor from devouring the Herald? That sequence of vague circumstances was rather unconvincing. 

Dorian paused for a moment, reminding himself that Solas had given them no reason to be suspicious of his expressed desire to help the Inquisition, at least thus far. Still, his upbringing in Tevinter had shown him that even mortal enemies could forge an alliance for the sake of a common goal. Once that goal had been achieved, however, it was back to plotting assassinations. 

Dorian wondered when Trevelyan could expect a knife in the back. He’d keep his tongue firmly planted in his mouth and his eye on the elf. He prayed that his vigilance would prove unnecessary. 

They had been trailing through the mountains for several days now, their pace considerably slower due to the size of their group and the amount of goods they carried. On nights where the moon shone unobstructed and the wind didn’t attempt to blow out their torches, they would continue their march until well into the night. Trevelyan was determined to arrive at their destination as quickly as possible in order to reestablish the Inquisition – a place for Josephine to greet dignitaries, for Leliana to manage her vast network, and to quarter and train the troops under Cullen’s command.

They had set out early that morning, the path before them steep. Luckily there had been little in the way of precipitation since the blizzard a week prior, so the snow was not impossibly deep. Dorian had helped to prepare the carts in the morning, feeding the horses what little remained while magicking their reins, attaching them to the carts they were to pull along. 

He’d spent most of the morning in a solitary march near the front of the line, enjoying the quiet, letting his mind wander from thought to thought. He wondered if word of his arrival in the South had reached the ears of his doting parents. _Hmph._ Had Felix made it back to Tevinter by now? It had been weeks since they had parted. Dorian hoped he had survived the journey, and that he would summarily ship down the contents of Alexius’ library. He’d had some time in Haven to work on the necessary modifications to the time amulet, but there were several theories that he’d needed to reconfirm before attempting anything too foolish.

A few nights prior, while he was alone in the tent, he had tried to charge the amulet with magic, to see how it would react with the Breach sealed. It sputtered, like a child coughing, and dropped back into his palm, an innocuous piece of metal in his hand. Looking down at the pendant, he couldn’t help but think of his former mentor, and how he, like the pendant, was now stripped of all his power. 

He’d caught a glimpse of Alexius, chained up and heavily guarded by a squad of Inquisition soldiers. He was shocked to see that Alexius had survived Haven, and teemed with the thought of how many good men and women lied underneath the snow that covered Haven in his stead. He’d thought about going to speak with him, but he wasn’t quite ready to have that conversation. Not enough time had passed to mend this particular wound, unfortunately, and Alexius would have to bear the brunt of Dorian’s silence.

“Hey you! What’s on?” Sera said, sidling up to Dorian. _And I’d so been enjoying the peace and quiet._ She and Bull had apparently seen him lost in thought and figured they’d come drag him back down to the earth. 

“The usual. Continuing our bloody march through this bloody frozen wasteland. How do you southerners stand it?”

“You could start by not bloody whinging about it.” Sera said slyly. “We don’t have people down here who rub your arse every time you feel a wee bit chilly.”

“We don’t have people who… nevermind. Why arent’ you,” Dorian turned to Bull, “wearing a shirt underneath your cloak?”

“So you can enjoy the view.” Bull retorted. Dorian gagged at the suggestion. 

“Please, we have such little food. I’d hate to waste the meager breakfast I had by vomiting it up.” Dorian said.

“Well, if you gag that easy, I can’t imagine you’re much fun in the sack.” Bull said. 

“You’d do well to keep imagining, because it’s never going to happen.” 

“Not now, anyway.” The Bull added, a laugh emanating from deep in his gut. Sera’s eyes wandered between the two, before an expression of understanding broke over her face. 

“Oh! You and the Inquisitor,” her tone dropped down into wickedness. “On your knees, pledging your service to the Inquisition? Bedding your way to the top? Didn’t peg you for that. Or maybe,” the chuckle started in her voice, “you’re the one getting pegged!” 

Dorian rolled his eyes at her immaturity. “Whatever happens behind closed doors ought to remain there.” _Thank the Maker father wasn’t here to hear me say that._

“I think you’ve teased him enough, Sera. Besides, if the Herald had been the one doing the pegging, Dorian wouldn’t have been able to walk all this way.” _One more cheap shot, I suppose._ It sent Sera spiraling off into maniacal laughter.

“I beg your pardon?” Dorian asked, foolishly.

“I’ve seen him naked. I’m almost jealous. Almost.” Bull said. Dorian’s eyelids sunk, and he pinched his nose in exasperation. _How delightfully crass._ He looked ahead to the front of the line, where Trevelyan strode ahead of the crowd. They were coming to a crest, and Dorian wondered how much snowy tundra might lie beyond. Trevelyan turned for a moment to look back, and caught Dorian’s eye, winking lightly at the mage. Sera nudged Dorian in the ribs violently, nearly knocking him off his feet. He gathered himself quickly, and looked back to the front of the group. Trevelyan had stopped at the top of the crest, before taking several steps down and out of view. Solas stood nearby, solid as stone, his gaze cast out across the mountains.

Dorian watched as Trevelyan reemerged at the apex of the hill. 

“Come! We’ve found it!” 

Dorian picked up his speed, running hastily up the rocks towards the Herald and Solas, Cassandra running at his side, Sera and Bull close behind them. As they reached the point where the Herald and Solas stood, it came into view. The enormous ancient elven fortress sprawled out before them, resting comfortably on the peak of a mountain. 

“It’s incredible!” Cassandra beamed.

“Guess those elves were good for something. Maybe.” Sera quickly qualified her statement. Solas bristled silently by the Herald’s side. 

“What’s it called?” Bull asked. Trevelyan turned, his mouth pulled back in a beautiful, beaming smile.

“Skyhold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCKING HELL WE MADE IT TO SKYHOLD.
> 
> I thought this day would never come. _THANK THE MAKER_.
> 
> So this chapter was a bit shorter than they have been, mostly because it was excised from the last chapter because that one had gotten too long. But it was so necessary. Besides, this chapter is a bit different, tonally, I think, so that fit better. All the action from Haven and the escape have subsided, this is a bit of a different feeling. I think WAY TOO MUCH about this fic.
> 
> So yeah, Dorian and Trevelyan did a bit of soul searching, and came to some conclusions. Now we get to watch them awkwardly dance around the topic of their feelings.
> 
> Also, get ready for the smut. It's coming. HARD.
> 
> As always, thank you for the comments and the kudos. I love chatting with you all about the story and our interpretations of the characters, how you're feeling about what I'm doing, where you'd like to see things go. I've already worked ONE of your suggestions into a future chapter (it's far down the line, but I sincerely hope you'll appreciate it when you catch it!) XOXO, my loves!


	15. The Inquisitor and the Tevinter

Dorian stood on the balcony above the entrance to the Main Hall, staring down as Trevelyan ascended the stairs toward Leliana, who carried an enormous gilded sword. Vivienne stood beside him, one hand upon her waist, another on the bannister in front of her. Solas stood on her other side, further back from the ledge, his perpetually cool stare cast down towards Trevelyan. 

Leliana presented him with the blade, which he took in hand, raising it towards his face. His voice rang out over the Courtyard. “This isn’t about a greater message. We have an enemy and we have to stand together. We’ll do what is _right_. The Inquisition will fight for all of us.”

The crowd erupted into raucous cheers. Even the eternally composed Lady Montilyet let the spirit of the moment infect her, loudly hollering her support for the Herald. It had been about a month since their arrival at Skyhold, and it finally seemed as though the pall that had been cast over the Inquisition was lifting. They had managed to establish themselves within the fortress – Leliana had reconnected with the majority of her vast network, and Josephine had sent hundreds of letters to half the nobility across southern Thedas and beyond, informing them of the Herald’s heroics and the Inquisition’s newfound home. Cullen, meanwhile, busied himself with overseeing the repairs and renovations required to make Skyhold livable, and with clearing paths through the mountains to help facilitate trade and travel.

Of course, the fact that Skyhold was in such disrepair meant that Dorian had spent, at the very least, the last fortnight tucked into an uncomfortable bedroll, hidden away in some corner of the castle with the other members of the Inner Circle, who’d all been promised private quarters by Trevelyan himself. Of course, several among them had objected – Sera most loudly, Blackwall most ardently, and Cole, well, who even knew if the spirit slept at all – but if Dorian had learned anything from his time in the south, it was not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak.

The noise had died down, and Vivienne opened her mouth. “He has performed his role admirably since Haven. I’m certain his tenure as Inquisitor will be stellar. Don’t you agree, darling?” She turned to Dorian.

“I think he’d prefer another avalanche over leading the throngs of the faithful, to be honest.” Dorian quipped.

“You would have better insight into the inner working of his mind than any of us.” She said, her face perpetually frozen in that deceptively pleasant expression.

“Oh, come off it, Vivienne. Clearly, you haven’t dissuaded me, or more importantly, him.”

“As much as it might pain me to admit, I realize that the Herald cares a great deal for you.”

“Are you admitting that you were wrong?” Dorian said, his voice a gleeful cackle.

“No, darling, not at all. It is still a terrible idea, one that both of you should shake from your heads. However, his judgment has been sound on many counts. I can forgive him this faux-pas.”

“I suppose that’s as close to a blessing as I’d ever receive from you.”

“Take your victories where you can, darling.” She turned back to glance down at Trevelyan, who had made his way down to the masses below, greeting them heartily with handshakes and slaps on the back. _Their new Inquisitor._

“I wonder,” Solas said, “what will this Inquisition become, with Trevelyan at its head.” 

“He has made it this far, my dear.” Vivienne responded. “He has maintained his composure in the wake of near death, and has been an inspiration to our forces. If the Inquisition follows the Inquisitor, then it will be a beacon, shining for all of Thedas.” Her voice had changed, subtly. Dorian understood, implicitly, that Vivienne was glad to be standing so close to the shining light, and relishing the opportunity to influence where that light shone. 

“Certainly, yes, but that is an incomplete view. What does that beacon stand for? What causes will he champion? What will be cast aside? You must be displeased that he seems willing to abandon your beloved Circle,” Solas challenged her. Dorian could appreciate the elf’s willingness to cut straight to the heart of a matter – even when Dorian had been on the receiving end of that blade.

“My dear, he has not yet abandoned the idea of the Circles. The fact that he went to great lengths to save the Templars shows that he understands that order must be maintained. You neglect to remember that his negotiations with the mages will be all but meaningless if they aren’t accepted by the people.”

“Ah, but as you’ve said – the Inquisitor is a beacon, leading the faithful. Do you think them so fickle as to turn from the Herald of Andraste herself, the moment he proposes a new, forward-thinking solution?” Solas asked, raising his eyebrows in innocence. _Mock innocence, I should think._

“I suppose we shall see, my dear.” She said. Defeated twice in one conversation, Dorian thought. I bet she’s positively furious. 

___

 

In spite of their best efforts, it seemed as though privacy had become the rarest commodity in the world, what with Trevelyan’s vaulted position after his miraculous survival, and the new title certainly wouldn’t help. The Inquisitor was constantly being put through his paces: helping to clear paths through the mountains, greeting nobility with Josephine, assisting in the repairs of Skyhold, continuing the peace talks with the mages and the Templars. Of course, the first few weeks would be hectic, Dorian reasoned. Trevelyan would come to visit Dorian, exchange a witty barb or a compliment, before being ushered away by someone who desperately needed his attention. 

Still, Trevelyan made the effort where he could, and Dorian was nothing if not appreciative. There was something intoxicating in knowing that Trevelyan’s mind wandered to Dorian often enough to pay him a visit, or share a quick meal. The kisses were frequent enough, though they were nothing compared to their last night in Haven. But while Trevelyan’s visits were enough to sustain Dorian’s affection, he found himself growing bitter that he and Trevelyan weren’t afforded at least a moment or two for a quick liaison. At this rate, Fiona would have a better chance of bedding the Inquisitor than Dorian, with all the time she spent pestering him in their negotiations. 

It hadn’t even been until the very beginning of their third week in Skyhold that he and Trevelyan managed to find but a moment alone. Dorian had been tinkering with the amulet for the better part of the evening, trying desperately to remember which enchantments he’d have to untangle it order to redirect its purpose to short-range temporal shifts. He finally gave his hard work a rest, and decided to talk a walk on the battlements, admiring the beauty of the Frostbacks as the moon dazzled brilliantly above him, turning the snowy peaks into glittering diamonds. It was a truly breathtaking vision.

_Yes, breathtaking. The air is so thin and cold, you couldn’t draw a proper breath if you tried._

He’d rounded the wall of the fortress, standing near the tower that would soon house their Herald. He gazed up at the beautiful balconies that hovered above the rest of the fortress, and wondered how much more magnificent this view must be from up on high. 

The door to the nearest tower opened behind him. He turned to see Trevelyan, walking with one of Josephine’s assistants. Trevelyan locked eyes with Dorian and smiled.

“Marquis DuRellion, the owner of the land upon which Haven stood, has requested that we erect a monument at the site where Haven once stood, as a testament to those who stood against Corypheus and his army.” The assistant turned to Trevelyan, who shook himself from his distraction and turned to her.

“I’m sure that will not be a problem. Talk to Cullen, first, though: I’m sure there are many soldiers who would be willing to assist in the effort.”

“Certainly, your Grace.” She bowed to him politely. Trevelyan glanced back at Dorian.

“That will be all for the evening.” He said, his tone kind, yet final.

“But, your Grace…”

“You can tell Lady Montilyet that I ended the discussions early. I’m sure she’d agree that one early night wouldn’t grind the Inquisition to a halt.”

“Of course, your Grace. Good evening.”

“Good evening to you, as well.” They bowed politely to each other, and she hurriedly made her exit. Dorian took the opportunity to step forward, moving toward Trevelyan.

“So, thinking of turning in early tonight?” Dorian asked.

“It was a long day.” Trevelyan said. “I barely had time for a quick bath after helping the soldiers clear out some of the routes in the mountains. The mages have sped things up significantly.” He took a step closer to Dorian, his eyes teasing his intentions. Dorian mimicked the motion, stepping forward. 

“You must be exhausted.” Dorian said, continuing to move toward Trevelyan. “I certainly wouldn’t want to keep you.” His eyes glowed with heat, as he stopped, right in front of Trevelyan. He could smell the clean, earthy scent of Trevelyan, inches away from him, and he had no intention of letting him go.

“Keep me all you want.” Trevelyan smirked at Dorian, his stupid, intoxicating half-smile. Dorian felt himself slipping away. _It was fun playing coy while it lasted, I suppose._

He threw himself at Trevelyan, pressing his lips against Trevelyan’s as he pushed him back into the stone wall of the tower behind them. Trevelyan kissed him greedily, their mouths working violently against each other’s. Dorian couldn’t keep track of what was happening, just that he was elated to finally have a moment alone with Trevelyan. Dorian’s hands worked over Trevelyan’s body, grabbing furiously at whatever part of him he could, his chest, his arms, his waist, his ass, his quickly swelling package. Trevelyan worked at Dorian just as hard, pulling him in by the back of the head, kissing him so hard that Dorian’s teeth hurt. Dorian drew back for a moment to catch his breath. 

“Miss me?” Trevelyan asked, breathing heavily. 

“You know I’d never admit to that.” Dorian said, his mouth pressing up against Trevelyan’s neck, nibbling up toward his ear.

“I missed you.” Trevelyan said. 

“Which part?” Dorian said, moving back to Trevelyan’s lips, rolling his tongue inside of Trevelyan’s mouth. Trevelyan moaned loudly, before pushing Dorian away.

“This.” Trevelyan spun around Dorian, pushing him forward into the wall. Dorian grunted as his body made contact with the stone, while Trevelyan yanked down Dorian’s pants, slipping his hand down, his fingers teasing Dorian’s hole. His head leaned over Dorian’s shoulder, licking and biting gently at his earlobe, while his fingers continued their work. Dorian moaned in response. “Actually,” Trevelyan murmured, his kisses leading to the back of Dorian’s head. “I missed all of it. But this,” Dorian felt Trevelyan’s fingers press against him, “has evaded me for far too long.”

Before Dorian could manage a response, Trevelyan was on his knees, his face planted firmly in between Dorian’s cheeks, his tongue furiously working against Dorian’s hole. Dorian gasped loudly, before covering his mouth. Trevelyan’s tongue wandered, up and down, as Dorian pushed his hips out. Trevelyan responded in turn, digging his tongue into Dorian, and Dorian had to clamp his mouth shut to dampen the ensuing whimper that rose from inside of him. He felt Trevelyan’s hands on his hips, pulling him as far back into Trevelyan’s face as he could go. Trevelyan slid a hand around, grabbing furiously at Dorian’s cock, stroking in long, quick strides. Dorian surrendered completely, pants around his knees, Trevelyan’s tongue buried in his ass. He planted a hand on top of Trevelyan’s head, and turned himself to catch Trevelyan’s eyes. 

Trevelyan stared up at Dorian, his eyes heavy, drunk with lust. Dorian felt the fire rising up inside of him. He knew what he wanted, and he wasn’t going to wait any longer. His fingers laced themselves through Trevelyan’s hair, and Dorian tilted his head up, so Trevelyan wouldn’t miss a word.

“Fuck me. Now.” 

Trevelyan stared up at him, his mind struggling to piece together what Dorian could possibly mean, before it hit him all at once. He stood up, pressing his body into Dorian, kissing Dorian’s lips. Dorian could feel Trevelyan throbbing through his pants, and grew impatient. He pulled back from Trevelyan.

“I said now!” He ordered. 

“Who’s there?” A voice responded. 

It wasn’t either of theirs. 

Their eyes bulged at each other in horror, as they hastily spun around, attempting to right themselves. The footsteps approaching the door were growing louder. Dorian grabbed at his pants, desperately struggling to yank them up around his legs and failing miserably. _Kaffas! They’re too damned tight! This is your own fault, Pavus. Caught with your impeccably fashionable pants down._ Dorian heard the footsteps stop. The door would be open any second.

He felt Trevelyan’s arms whirl around him, and realized that Trevelyan was covering him with his cloak. He looked up, and saw Trevelyan smirking at him, before turning around. _Thank the Maker we’re on the side closest to the hinges._

The door opened just as Dorian had pulled the cloak around himself, his pants seemingly unwilling to budge above his ass. A soldier stepped out, and turned to see Trevelyan, standing in front of Dorian. 

“Your Grace!” He stammered.

“Soldier.” Trevelyan raised his fist to his chest, and the soldier returned the gesture, albeit with a shaky hand.

“I thought I’d heard voices…” The soldier trailed off.

“You did.” Trevelyan said. “Master Pavus and I were discussing some matters related to the Venatori. He’s quite determined to take care of it sooner, rather than later.” 

Dorian wondered from where he’d pulled that excuse. _I said now_. His words rang back in his mind. _Clever._

“Oh.” The soldier looked back over at Dorian, who nodded his head politely. His eyes began to wander, looking out over the horizon, and then down. They froze there for a second, widening in shock, before he jerked his head back up to look at Trevelyan.

_Trevelyan was still hard_. Dorian feigned a cough to stifle his chuckle.

“Continue your rounds, soldier. We were just leaving.” Trevelyan said, his voice calm and collected. 

“Right, your Grace.” The soldier sped off, toward the tower. Trevelyan grabbed the door, and ushered Dorian inside. 

“I’m so sorry.” Trevelyan said.

“Why be sorry? For giving the poor bastard an eyeful?” Dorian laughed quietly, as he slowly worked his pants back over himself. 

“For this. This complete lack of privacy, how busy everything has been.” Trevelyan said, his eyes sorrowful. 

“It’s quite alright,” Dorian said, as kindly as possible. “I understand that you have a number of competing priorities.”

“You should know that you’re on that list.” 

Dorian’s heart twisted inside of his chest. “I won’t ask as to where exactly I am on that list. Somewhere between ‘Stop Corypheus’ and ‘Patch the wall in the hallway to the War Room,’ I imagine?”

“When I can keep track of them all, I’ll let you know.” Trevelyan joked, lightly. Dorian had managed to get his pants on, and handed Trevelyan’s cloak back to him. Trevelyan draped it over his arm, before pulling Dorian in for another ravenous kiss.   
“I would drag you back to my quarters right this minute, but I’m afraid they’re still being repaired. There isn’t even a bed in there yet.”

“I’m assuming it’ll be some overblown, gilded Orlesian monstrosity?” Dorian quipped.

“Actually, I’d requested that Josie call in a favor from a Marcher carpenter. I’ve wanted a four-poster bed ever since I was young. It should hopefully be arriving in a couple of weeks. My room should be fixed up by then. And so should yours!” Trevelyan said excitedly. 

“Thank the Maker. If I never have to look at a bedroll again for the rest of my life, it will be too soon.” Trevelyan laughed.

“We should get going. That soldier kept walking toward a dead end. He’ll be back shortly. To ogle me some more, I’m sure.”

“Don’t get too cocky.” Dorian chided him.

“Can’t help it.” Trevelyan winked, and Dorian laughed in spite of himself. _Ass_. Dorian reached up to gently kiss Trevelyan. He wouldn’t want to get carried away again. 

“Let’s go.” Dorian said, pulling Trevelyan toward the stairs. They made their way down the tower, and then down the battlements, laughing unprovoked at having nearly been caught. They stopped at the stairs that led up to Skyhold. Several people still littered the courtyard, either leaving the tavern or wandering about the grounds.

“I suppose this is good night, then?” Dorian asked.

“Unfortunately. Hopefully not too many more like this.” Trevelyan said. 

“Here’s to hoping.” Dorian moved forward, and Trevelyan pulled him close for a kiss. Dorian could swear he heard several loud whispers ring out across the courtyard. Trevelyan pulled away smiling, his eyes locked on Dorian, as if he were the only person in the entire world. 

“Good night, beautiful.” The words flooded Dorian’s head. _Keep it together._

“Good night, Gabriel.” 

___

 

Dorian stood on the balcony above the Main Hall, leaning against the wall, his view towards the throne at the head of the hall partially obscured by the scaffolding that had been erected to assess the structural integrity of the walls. He was thankful for the cover at the moment, watching carefully as Alexius stood in front of the throne, upon which the Inquisitor was seated. Josephine stood by the Inquisitor’s side, Dorian supposed, to add an air of formality to the proceedings, rifling through a list of charges against Dorian’s former mentor.

It seemed as though the trial had reached its conclusion. The Inquisitor’s voice rang through the hall, clear and loud. “You magic was theoretically impossible, Alexius. I could use people like you. Your sentence is to serve, under guard, as a researcher on all things magical for the Inquisition.”

Dorian gasped quietly, immediately covering his mouth to stifle the sound. Alexius’ sentence was hardly punishment at all. He looked back towards the throne, and could have sworn Trevelyan was gazing up at him on the balcony, but he couldn’t be sure at this distance. Alexius was summarily lead out of the hall, the rattling of his chains echoing against the high stone walls. 

“It must be hard for you, knowing what your former mentor has become.” Dorian turned to the source of the voice. Leliana stood just outside the doorway to the library, leaning against the wall. She approached the balcony, looking down at the disgraced former Magister. “Betrayal is often compared to a dagger in the back. I’ve come to learn, however, that from those we once cared for, betrayal is a dagger to the heart.”

“We once shared a vision for the future of Tevinter; a vision he all too readily abandoned the day that his son contracted the Blight.” Dorian said, moving to her side as Alexius disappeared from their view. “But Alexius did not betray me, he betrayed himself, and more importantly, Felix.”

“Does it come as a surprise?” Leliana turned to him, her face serene, yet severe. “How much of ourselves we are willing to abandon, how quickly we can change, all for the sake of those we love?” 

“I will admit, I have wondered whether or not I would have done the same, had I been in Alexius’ position.” Dorian mused. “I suppose I am fortunate, not having had to make that choice.”

“Be thankful for that mercy.” Leliana breathed, her voice a solemn whisper. “And be thankful for the Inquisitor’s. Alexius might have a chance to redeem himself.”

“Are you suggesting that I influenced the Inquisitor’s judgment?” Dorian asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Not directly, no.” Leliana said. “But the Inquisitor considers a great many things when passing judgment. Is it so unfathomable that you would be among them?”

“I certainly wouldn’t expect Trevelyan to grant clemency to Alexius, after everything that occurred in Redcliffe.”

“The Inquisitor has grown since the tragedy at Haven. He both embraced and eschewed his role within our ranks, when he’d first pledged himself to our cause. It seems as though he’s managed to reconcile those disparities in his heart and mind. Before, he could do little more than react to the forces that pushed and pulled at him, whether those forces were real or imagined.”

“And now?” Dorian asked.

“He no longer sees himself as a failure. He does not question his place, or the decisions that he makes. He had accepted that he is who we need him to be: nothing more, nothing less. If you had a part in that epiphany, why shouldn’t he consider how you’d feel about him passing judgment on your former mentor?” She smiled delicately at Dorian, her voice a lovely lilt, as though she’d never quite stopped playing the Game. 

“Because justice should operate regardless of whether or not I would like the results?” Dorian retorted.

“You know, Dorian, I have a dossier thicker than any book in the library about your life prior to joining the Inquisition. It contains all of your successes, your victories, your failures, and your scandals, of which there were many.” Her voice had turned razor-sharp, and Dorian suspected he ought to duck, lest his head be taken off. “I’d offered to show it to the Inquisitor, back in Haven, but he refused. He said that he wanted to hear those stories from you, and you alone.” 

Dorian stood for a minute, dumbstruck. It was unsurprising that Leliana had volumes upon volumes of reports on Dorian’s sordid past. Dorian wasn’t even surprised that Trevelyan had refused to read them, but for his reasoning. _How chivalrous of him._

“He cares for you, Dorian.” She turned on her heel, her voice drifting over her shoulder as she left to return to her Rookery above the library. “There are far worse things that someone you care for could do, than to consider your feelings.”

He stood and watched her silhouette slink into the shadows, disappearing into the library beyond. The possibility of Trevelyan caring for him was not news; he’d come to that conclusion on his own, after everything that had happened in Haven. That knowledge, however, failed to stop that feeling in his chest every time he uncovered a new piece of evidence to support his conclusion. He sighed, and turned back toward the Hall. Trevelyan had vacated his throne and disappeared. _The only other person in Skyhold who is better at vanishing is Cole._

“Looking for me?” Trevelyan called from beneath him. Dorian looked down to see the beautiful, tanned face tilted back, smiling up at him.

“That’s awfully presumptuous of you.” Dorian smiled back.

“Should I presume you’re about to spin around and return to your alcove in the…” He stopped, his eyes widening. “Wait! Come downstairs! I have something to show you.” Dorian arched an eyebrow at Trevelyan. “Quickly! I have to meet with Josephine and Cullen in the War Room in a few moments.”

Dorian turned and darted down the stairs, emerging in the Main Hall. Trevelyan stood, waiting for him. “Come on,” Trevelyan said, turning towards the door across the hall. Dorian followed behind him, as they went through the door to Josephine’s office, and took a hard left down the stairs. Dorian hadn’t yet visited the basements of Skyhold, but he was almost positive that Trevelyan was leading him to the wine cellar, and his mouth watered in anticipation.

They emerged into a large room, flanked on either side by ancient, giant portraits of landscapes, possibly of the Ferelden countryside, which were in exceptionally good condition. Trevelyan had crossed the hall, and moved toward a door in the corner of the room. 

“I found this two weeks ago. I knew I had to show it to you, but things kept coming up, and it slipped my mind. I apologize.” He smiled wanly at Dorian, before opening the door to the dark room.

Dorian’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he saw shelves, filled to the brim with tomes, coated in cobwebs and dust. He crossed the threshold, moving past Trevelyan, his head rotating in awe at what surrounded him. “This is incredible!” He muttered. “I wonder how long some of these have been here? Obviously, long enough to gather cobwebs, but even still – Solas said Skyhold had remained largely unoccupied for ages.” Dorian entered the small, circular endpoint of the room, where a dilapidated wooden desk stood, a giant book laid out on top. He blew gently at the pages, watching as years of dust and grime billowed into the air. He reached out, gently turning the page. 

“Everything in this room seems remarkably well-preserved, considering it’s been locked in a dank, cold basement for centuries.” Dorian said, his voice full of wonder. “They must have placed wards, or enchantments – _something_ – to keep everything in this room in peak condition. The libraries in the Circles of the Imperium utilize similar techniques to preserve their works, particularly the gems among their collections.”

“Really?” Trevelyan asked. 

“If I remember correctly, there was a rumor that a particular section of the Minrathous Circle, where the most ancient texts were archived, was enchanted with a ward that caused anyone who attempted to remove one of the tomes from its designated area to burst into uncontrollable sneezing fits. Mind you, it could very well have been the musk from those moldy old texts, but not a single book from that section of the library went missing.”

Trevelyan laughed, filling the room with the sound. Dorian laughed along with him, but his mind was so focused on everything that filled the room around them. He began gingerly pulling books from the shelves, flipping them open carefully in order to determine what, exactly, they might contain. 

“I hope there are no such wards on this particular room.” Trevelyan said, edging up behind Dorian, leaning his chin over Dorian’s shoulder to glimpse at the tome in Dorian’s hands. “The shelves in your little alcove seemed empty. I was hoping something in here might pique your interest, so you might begin to fill them.”

Dorian paused for a moment, closing the book in his hands and returning it to the shelf in front of him. He turned to Trevelyan. 

“Fill the shelves of the library with something other than Chantry-sanctioned history books and several donated copies of the tripe that Varric tries to pawn off as literature? I believe your new title has gone to your head. Lord knows what the nobles will say once they hear of this new level of depravity.”

“Let their tongues waggle. Yours is the only one I’m interested in.” Trevelyan leaned in to kiss Dorian, who made no objections, eagerly pressing himself into Trevelyan’s body, lips against lips, tongues rolling languorously in each other’s mouths. It had been their first kiss in nearly a week, and Dorian intended to savor the moment, even though he knew what was coming next.

Trevelyan pulled away. “I can’t stay.”

“I’m well aware, _Lord Inquisitor_.” Trevelyan rolled his eyes, and pushed Dorian back up against the shelves, kissing him fiercely, his hands sliding down Dorian’s side, grabbing onto his waist with fervor. Dorian responded, his hands grasping at either side of Trevelyan’s face, pulling him in. _Please stay, just a little longer._ He felt Trevelyan begin to pull away.

“I hope you’re aware that if I could, I would.” _Of course._

“My response remains the same.” Dorian quipped. Trevelyan returned the favor and rolled his eyes, kissing Dorian in short, small pecks. He let go of Dorian’s body, and kissed him once more, before turning to the door.

“I hope you liked this,” Trevelyan said, gesturing at the room around him. 

“Very much so.” Dorian responded. “Now, get going. Can’t have Josephine come to track me down and chastise me for taking up so much of your precious time.” Trevelyan turned to walk out of the room.

“If you think you get yelled at, imagine how much discipline I have to endure.” He called, as he left. 

“I’m sure you deserve every bit of it!” Dorian called after him. Trevelyan’s laugh echoed throughout the basement, and that was the last of him.

Dorian stared around the room, carefully examining the tomes on the walls. This would take several trips and a delicate hand, but he should be able to transport some of the texts up to his alcove for the sake of further study, without their bindings coming undone in his hands. He couldn’t believe that such a treasure existed underneath Skyhold for all these years, and hadn’t been ransacked by raiders or bandits.

It was awfully kind of Trevelyan to bring Dorian down to the basement and show him this trove. _How many kindnesses can the man show you in one day? First Alexius, then this?_

_He could have stuck around for a few moments longer._

Ever since their arrival at Skyhold, Trevelyan had been nothing more than an erratic phantom in Dorian’s day-to-day routine. It’s not that Dorian expected undivided attention, but every minute he had with Trevelyan felt stolen. Everyone needed something, at all hours of the day, that required Trevelyan’s undivided attention. Dorian refused to be one of them, pestering the Inquisitor like some sort of obnoxious child. 

Still, Dorian found himself in his bedroll at night, staring up at the ceiling, hoping that soon, he’d find himself back in Trevelyan’s bed. 

___

 

Dorian had stolen away to his alcove after dinner, determined to continue his work of cataloguing the delightful tomes that Trevelyan had been so kind as to point out to him. He’d pick one up, and immediately lose himself in the pages. Magical Theory. Early histories of the Blights. Studies of the Pyramids in Par Vollen. Each page contained wonders and mysteries, and Dorian was determined to pore over each word, his mind a sieve, filtering through all the muck and plucking out the nuggets of wisdom. 

The sun had long since set, but his curiosity would not abate. The library had quieted, most of its denizens having left to visit the tavern, or go to sleep. He burned through candle after candle in his quest, having read at least several pages of each book he’d picked up, cataloguing them on the shelves in the alcove, taking care to handle the tomes gently, each one a centuries-old treasure. He couldn’t date some of them precisely, but expected that some even dated back to the Steel Age. 

Another candle had burned down to a stub. Dorian stretched himself out, his back sore from the rickety wooden chair he’d been seated in. Josephine had promised him a new, more comfortable chair, and only because he’d stressed the importance of the research he was conducting for the Inquisition, and promised that he would assist in cataloguing all of the gifted books that the Inquisition received. Thus far, the books were mostly Chantry histories, including several volumes on Divine Galatea, which bored Dorian to tears. Someone had the sense to send a small collection of the works of Brother Genitivi, which Dorian had greedily tucked away in his alcove. An Orlesian noble, who Josephine had been kind enough to call ‘eccentric,’ had donated a particularly profane, expletive-ridden romance novel that he himself had written. It was ham-fisted and quite possibly the most vulgar thing Dorian had ever read on paper, but he’d laughed so hard he’d cried several times within the first five pages that he’d decided to save the novel for a day when he needed a pick-me-up.

Dorian pried himself up from his chair, and made his way through the darkened library to the stairs that lead down to the Main Hall. Even though he was tired and ought to find his way back to his temporary lodgings, he decided to take a detour to the garden. He made his way out into the large courtyard, which had been cleared, save for several shrubs and the well. He leaned against the well, staring up into the night sky, admiring the imposing figure of the tallest tower where Trevelyan was to sleep. It had become a habit, and Dorian was loath to break it.

_Trevelyan_. The Lord Inquisitor. Dorian sighed, his mind wandering aimlessly across the vast plains of his mind. He knew that Trevelyan cared for him, in some capacity, whatever it might be – clearly enough to save Alexius from the executioner’s axe – or at least, that was the common consensus. Vivienne had surrendered, albeit unwillingly, to Trevelyan’s apparent desire. But she had been right. Gossip had begun to spread, and Dorian had caught the tail end of a number of conversations that were quickly doused the moment he’d made his presence known. He wasn’t surprised at the speculation from the members of the Inquisition, or the scant few nobles that had made the pilgrimage to Skyhold and spent their days chatting idly in the Main Hall. The gossip was full of the usual vocabulary: ‘Magister,’ ‘Tevinter,’ ‘Blood Magic.’ 

He wondered how much of the gossip had managed to reach Trevelyan’s ears. Certainly, those individuals with loose lips and idle minds would think better than to whisper so much as a untoward suggestion around the Inquisitor. Dorian was sure that the kiss in the middle of the courtyard weeks prior had set tongues ablaze, but he didn’t regret it for even a moment. It was proof that there was something between them – that he wasn’t just a dirty secret, tucked away in the dark corners of the castle, like he had been so many times before. He felt the warmth spread up in his chest, bringing a momentary flush to his cheeks. He sighed heavily. 

The memory of warmth is not warmth itself.

He heard footsteps approaching him, and turned to his right to see Trevelyan, making a beeline towards him, his pace fast and determined, as he sped past one of the soldiers that stood guard at the edge of the garden. 

“Follow me. I have something to show you.” Trevelyan commanded, his voice low as to not attract any further attention. Dorian stared, puzzled for a moment as Trevelyan stormed by, his eyes wide and intent as they stared holes into Dorian. Dorian quickly gave chase, his footfalls light and quick, until he was caught up to Trevelyan.

“What is it?” Dorian asked, slightly concerned.

“You’ll see.” Trevelyan said, leading him to a door off the garden. Trevelyan opened it hastily, plunging into the room. Dorian followed, his footsteps tentative. “Close that, will you?” Trevelyan asked. Dorian obeyed, and turned to face Trevelyan. He’d seen this room before. The tall glass window was exquisite, the moonlight streaming through, casting an intricate shadow across the floor. Trevelyan stood, the moonlight rising over him in a lattice pattern, illuminating and obscuring him. Dorian looked around for a moment.

The room was empty, save the two of them. 

“I’m afraid I’m not seeing anything, unless you meant for me to see nothing. If that’s the case, color me surprised. I had no idea you were so… philosophical.” 

Trevelyan closed the gap between them in a few long strides, catching Dorian’s body in his hands and pushing him against the door. He grabbed his staff from behind his body, and turned the blade end toward Dorian.

“Are you mad?!” Dorian yelled. Trevelyan smirked wickedly, then thrust the staff behind Dorian, jamming it into the door handle. 

“Aren’t most geniuses considered mad in their time?” Trevelyan cooed sarcastically. “That way, they can’t open the door from the other side.” Dorian stared at Trevelyan for a moment, his heart racing in his chest, before thrusting forward into Trevelyan, their lips meeting in a passionate flurry. He’d forgotten how plump and pliable Gabriel’s lips were, feeling them pull between the delicate pinch of Dorian’s teeth, his tongue darting rapidly into Trevelyan’s mouth. 

Trevelyan grabbed at Dorian’s shirt, beginning to tug at the buckles that held it in place. Dorian grabbed at his hands, pushing them above his head, knocking Trevelyan back into the stone wall. Trevelyan grunted on impact, but his lips refused to part from Dorian’s, too eager to reclaim all the time that had been stolen from them.

Dorian pulled back, against the desperate attempts of Trevelyan’s lips to maintain contact, and stared hungrily at his captive. The moonlight washed over half his face, accentuating the planes of his cheeks, the depth of his eyes, which glinted green against the silver glow of the heavens. 

“So eager,” Dorian teased. “I haven’t give proper congratulations to our new _Inquisitor_.” Dorian let the words roll off his tongue, dripping slow like honey. Trevelyan played along, his eyelids sinking lazily, his lips wet and parted, eager for his reward. Dorian hadn’t had the need for this trick in a particularly long time. He looked down towards Trevelyan’s pants, his lips moving in a silent chant, and watched as they came undone around Trevelyan’s waist. 

“That’s new.” Trevelyan uttered, his voice heavy and lustful.

“For you, maybe,” Dorian retorted, as the pants slid down Trevelyan’s thighs. Normally, his spells required a small flourish of the hand, some sort of physical pull upon the Fade in order to effectuate themselves, but this particular charm required nothing but words. Useful, for when one’s hands were otherwise occupied. 

Dorian let go of Trevelyan’s hands, sinking quickly to his knees. “I hope you appreciate my service to the Inquisition,” Dorian said, unfurling Trevelyan’s member from his smallclothes, and wrapping his mouth around it.

Trevelyan moaned as Dorian began to accelerate his motion, greedily taking as much of Trevelyan’s cock into his mouth as he could manage, his hand guiding his lips down the shaft. Trevelyan rested his head against the stone wall, his eyes closed, his breathing become more erratic with each passing moment. His hand found its way to the back of Dorian’s head, which he stroked at gently, while his other hand clawed at the wall behind him. Dorian continued his efforts in a dedicated rhythm, bobbing up and down along Trevelyan’s length. 

Dorian increased the tempo momentarily, and Trevelyan let out a hiss in response, his head tilting down toward the Tevinter. Dorian gazed up at him, a supplicant, begging in earnest for the release of his Herald. Dorian pulled him mouth away from Trevelyan, and slathered his fingers in saliva. He moved his hand in between Trevelyan’s legs, sliding his fingers around Trevelyan’s hole. Trevelyan sighed heavily, his legs spreading further apart, allowing Dorian more direct access.

Dorian pulled his fingers away, coating them with saliva once more, and returned to his task. He pushed against Trevelyan’s hole, and was pleased to find that Trevelyan was eager to accommodate him, the taut, warm opening wrapping around Dorian’s finger as it slithered inside. Trevelyan’s hips sunk down, greeting Dorian’s finger readily. 

“Another,” Trevelyan murmured as he squirmed, and Dorian was more than happy to oblige, sinking another finger deep into Trevelyan, curling deeply inside of him, beckoning his orgasm. He returned his mouth to Trevelyan’s cock, licking the tip and devouring the shaft ravenously. 

They continued on, Dorian speeding up his assault on Trevelyan, the fingers inside of him pressing aggressively against the spot. The back of Dorian’s throat burned violently at his efforts to take Trevelyan wholly into his mouth, but tonight was a celebration. 

“Fuck, Dorian.” Trevelyan murmured. “I’m almost there.” Dorian pulled his head back, his hand continuing to work Trevelyan’s cock, his lips pouting seductively up at Trevelyan.

“I’m ready to receive you, _Lord Inquisitor_.” Dorian purred, returning his mouth to its rightful place around Trevelyan’s dick. He felt Trevelyan tense, watching as the muscles in his legs coiled, feeling his hole tightening around his fingers, his cock twitching violently in his mouth. Trevelyan moaned freely, his head jerking back, as Dorian pushed him right over the edge.

Trevelyan’s seed flooded Dorian’s mouth, thick and salty, and Dorian did not hesitate in swallowing every drop. Trevelyan’s hand grabbed furiously at the back of Dorian’s head, his other hand slipping against the wall behind him for support as his knees buckled under the intense pressure of his orgasm. Dorian continued to massage Trevelyan’s spot with his fingers, relishing in the feel of Trevelyan’s hole contracting around his digits. 

Trevelyan sputtered to a finish, gasping frantically for breath. Dorian finished his work, gingerly removing his fingers from inside Trevelyan, and granting Trevelyan’s cock repose from his mouth.

Dorian glanced upward, catching eyes with Trevelyan, whose face was slack with pleasure, his eyes nearly closed as though he’d been stupefied. Dorian savored the reaction that he elicited from the Inquisitor, reducing him to nothing more than a quivering mass of flesh. 

“Fuck.” Trevelyan muttered. 

“We could always do that too.” Dorian suggested. Trevelyan laughed. He caught Dorian’s chin with his fingers, gently pulling him up to his lips, kissing him sweetly, errant strands of his hair grazing against Dorian’s forehead.

“I saw you make your way to the gardens, and I practically ran to catch you.” Trevelyan murmured breathily.

“That desperate for a moment alone with me?” Dorian joked.

“I was positively aching with need.”

“I think I took care of that,” Dorian replied smugly. 

“Ah, but you could do with some attention.” Trevelyan chuckled, his hand working against Dorian’s cock, which bulged against his trousers. “I won’t lie, I’ve been waiting for a moment to get you alone.” His fingers slipped into his shirt pocket, pulling out a vial of oil. “I’ve been carrying this around in anticipation.” Dorian smirked.

“Desperate and eager,” Dorian taunted. “You ought to be more careful. Those two traits combined could very well bring you to you knees, _Inquisitor_.” Trevelyan winced at his title, but made no further mention of it, instead choosing to follow Dorian’s lead and drop to the ground, taking Dorian’s pants along with him. 

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it before.” Trevelyan said, tearing Dorian’s smallclothes down his thighs, and eagerly grabbing at Dorian’s cock. He smiled up at Dorian before devouring him in his entirety, pressing his lips against the base of Dorian’s dick. Dorian moaned in response to the sudden sensation, grabbing eagerly at Trevelyan’s head. 

Trevelyan steadily worked his own cock with his hand, the Anchor glowing brightly in delight, while his mouth dedicated itself to Dorian, determined to take all of Dorian into himself with each thrust forward. Dorian’s hips began to rock slightly, feeling the pressure of the back of Trevelyan’s throat against the tip of his cock. Trevelyan returned the motion with increased fervor, and Dorian’s head turned up, taking in the sound of Trevelyan’s mouth sucking at him. Trevelyan pulled away momentarily to tease the head of Dorian’s cock with his tongue. Dorian gazed back down towards Trevelyan, who swallowed Dorian whole in response. 

“ _Kaffas_.” Dorian gasped, sinking his hips into Trevelyan, feeling the recoil of his mouth against the pressure. Trevelyan pulled back, his hand replacing his mouth. Dorian looked back down at Trevelyan, whose own cock had returned to arousal, hard and thick in between his thighs. Trevelyan stood up to kiss Dorian, his mouth sweet from the sticky fluid that had flowed freely from Dorian’s swollen cock, which Trevelyan continued to work with his hand. Dorian grabbed Trevelyan by the waist, pulling him into his own body, and steadying Trevelyan with another hand on his cheek, slowing their pace down to something more comfortable. Dorian magicked opened Trevelyan’s shirt, watching as the buttons flew open, exposing his impeccably sculpted torso. Dorian felt Trevelyan’s cock press against his body and delighted in the sensation, his hand traveling down over Trevelyan’s ass, his fingers sinking inside of Trevelyan once more. Trevelyan pulled away from Dorian’s mouth and moaned loudly. 

“I can’t wait any longer.” Trevelyan said. He pulled away from Dorian, and grabbed for the vial of oil, impatiently uncorking it, and slathering its contents over Dorian’s cock. He passed the bottle to Dorian, and turned to walk toward a small rug in the middle of the room. He dropped gently to his knees, and turned to look at Dorian, his eyes burning with lust, as he bent over at the waist, supporting his upper body on his forearms. Dorian’s mind exploded with desire, staring at the image of the Herald on all fours, the moonlight dancing along his back, outlining the perfect silhouette of Trevelyan’s body. Dorian moved slowly towards Trevelyan, savoring the beauty of the image in front of him. Trevelyan turned over his shoulder to watch Dorian’s approach. 

Dorian dropped to his knees behind Trevelyan, and carefully drizzled a bit of oil, watching it trail down to Trevelyan’s hole. Dorian slid his fingers along the trail and into Trevelyan, not stopping until all that he could see were his knuckles. Trevelyan moaned loudly, and turned back to Dorian, his eyes watering. He pulled himself forward, away from Dorian’s hand. 

“I’m ready.” Trevelyan said, breathily. Dorian looked down, at what lied before him. He grabbed his dick in his hand, and pointed it toward Trevelyan’s hole, moving forward, feeling the tip slide into Trevelyan. Trevelyan’s head rolled back in response. Dorian felt Trevelyan tighten around him momentarily, which elicited a twitch from his cock. _Kaffas_. He continued his descent, losing himself inside of Trevelyan, watching as Trevelyan ‘s fingers gripped desperately at the carpet beneath him, his low moans echoing throughout the chamber. He felt his hips meet Trevelyan’s ass, and stopped momentarily to appreciate the warm tautness of Trevelyan around his cock. Trevelyan pushed back against his hips gently. Dorian moaned with pleasure.

He began to move, steadily at first, feeling Trevelyan’s hips rolling forward and back, meeting Dorian at every thrust. He gazed back at Dorian, his face contorted in pleasure, his lips quivering with each breath, his eyes burning with determination. Trevelyan reached down in between his own legs, stroking himself. Dorian flung his arms out, grabbing Trevelyan around his shoulders and yanking him up, pressing Trevelyan’s back into his chest, sinking deeply inside of him. Dorian’s hands worked desperately, grabbing at Trevelyan’s face, turning it to kiss his lips, while the other hand moved towards Trevelyan’s, their hands working Trevelyan’s cock in unison.

Trevelyan’s hips began to rise, easing Dorian out of himself, before slamming back into Dorian. Dorian sucked in a breath, the wet warmth of Trevelyan accommodating every inch of Dorian’s cock. Dorian’s hips joined in the motion, eager to fill the Inquisitor, as the room echoed with their guttural moans. Trevelyan pushed back against Dorian, and Dorian eased backward, his hand on Trevelyan’s waist, pulling him down. Dorian lied back against the carpet on the cold stone floor, and Trevelyan seated himself on Dorian’s cock, bouncing up and down in a steady rhythm. Dorian’s head slid back, pressed hard against the floor, reeling in the sensation of Trevelyan wrapped around him, his muscles clenching around Dorian.

“Watch.” Trevelyan commanded, as Dorian picked his head up. Trevelyan was turned back to Dorian, his eyes gazing lustfully down, his head rising and falling in a steady motion. Dorian’s eyes trailed down to Trevelyan’s ass. He watched as Trevelyan’s well-toned, pert ass rose and fell, his hole eagerly accommodating every last inch of Dorian in perfectly punctuated beats. Dorian felt the sensation rising in his gut, as his mind liquefied inside of his skull. 

He grabbed Trevelyan by the shoulders, pulling him back against his chest once more, feeling the weight of Trevelyan’s body resting comfortably on top of him. He began to thrust into Trevelyan, quickly picking up his pace into a fury. Trevelyan moaned loudly, writhing in pleasure. Dorian could feel his motions becoming more spasmodic, and he knew how easy it would be to draw another orgasm out of him. He continued to hammer away at Trevelyan, pushing himself inside. Trevelyan grabbed at his own cock, jerking determinedly. Dorian felt his legs begin to quake underneath him. 

“I’m close.” Dorian groaned against Trevelyan’s head. Trevelyan turned over his shoulder once more, kissing Dorian with an irregular fervor, his teeth biting down roughly as he drew ragged breaths through his nose. 

“Me too.” Trevelyan murmured, as Dorian pushed, a final flurry of strokes. He felt the sensation spike up within him, and then subside instantaneously as the immaculate pleasure of his orgasm coursed through his body. He could feel himself pouring out inside of Trevelyan, every muscle in his body tensed, screaming out at him. It was incredible, this feeling, of finishing inside Trevelyan, who continued to squirm on top of him.

“Almost there,” Trevelyan grunted, his hand working himself as his hips desperately pushed down on Dorian’s cock. Dorian pushed past the fatigue of his orgasm, and began to thrust again, Trevelyan gasping in response.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Trevelyan moaned, as the orgasm ripped through his body. Dorian winced at the sensation of Trevelyan’s hole clenching around his sensitive member, as Trevelyan sputtered out, his seed arcing through the air, covering his chest and stomach. Dorian’s hands latched firmly on to Trevelyan’s hips, continuing to thrust deeply into him, determined to maximize the pleasure. Trevelyan’s body jerked violently as it came to an end, his body relaxing, his limbs slack with ecstasy. He laid back against Dorian, who had slowed his thrusts to light, shallow motions. 

Trevelyan lay there for a moment, pressed against Dorian, attempting to catch his breath. Dorian was unable to find the words to protest – Trevelyan was heavy, and the floor was uncomfortable – not that he would have. Dorian’s mind could only focus on the pleasure that pumped through his body, making his toes tingle, and the overwhelming joy that he’d finally been able to get a moment alone with Trevelyan.

Trevelyan eventually managed to collect himself, propping himself up on his hands and shifting his weight off of Dorian, as Dorian’s cock slid gently out of the warmth and into the cool air of the chamber. Trevelyan turned, back on his hands and knees, and rested above Dorian. His arms and legs shook with the effort.

“Kiss me.” Dorian broke the silence. Trevelyan smiled, and bowed his head down to kiss Dorian, an even, passionate kiss. He pulled back for a moment, his face stuck somewhere between exhaustion and giddiness. 

“ _Fuck_ , Dorian. I…” he breathed in, his eyes wandering around. “I don’t even have words.”

“Thankfully, I have many. Exceptional? Explosive? Sublime?” Trevelyan laughed.

“Yes, all of those.” Trevelyan said between breaths. “That was perfect.”

“Of course it was. I was involved.” Trevelyan rolled his eyes and laughed heartily. 

“I’ll give you that.” He smirked down at Dorian, his eyes evoking the warmth that Dorian had grown to crave. “I ought to clean myself up, and get you off this musty floor.” 

“One more kiss.” Dorian said, and Trevelyan obliged, dipping his head to receive Dorian. They lips wove together, their tongues teasing each other. Trevelyan pulled himself back, and heaved himself off the floor. He extended a hand, and Dorian took it gladly, pulling his body up. Trevelyan stood up, his pants still caught around his ankles, and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. Dorian pulled his pants up around his waist again, magicking the buckles on his shirt closed once more. Trevelyan had finished cleaning himself off, and made quick work of re-buttoning his shirt. He bent over to pull his pants up, and Dorian caught a glimpse of his ample, muscled ass, and felt a pulse rush between his legs for a moment. _You’ve had your fill tonight, Pavus. Another orgasm and you might kill the man._

Trevelyan stood in front of him, clothed once more, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow around him. He moved forward and brought Dorian in for another kiss, their lips meeting in the comfortable rhythm they had developed, or maybe, it was the rhythm they’d had all along, and Dorian was just noticing. Their lips fit together seamlessly, their kisses always paced so smoothly and evenly.

Trevelyan pulled back. “I actually do have another surprise for you, tonight.” He smirked. 

“What now? Going to take me next door and fuck me in the Chapel underneath the statue of Andraste? Cassandra would flog you within an inch of your life if she ever found out.”

“You have some really twisted fantasies, Dorian.” Trevelyan snarked. “I promise, you’ll like this surprise more than sex with me.” Trevelyan grabbed Dorian’s hand, and began to move toward the door. Dorian followed along.

“More than sex with you? Have you stolen all the books and wine in the Imperium?” Dorian guessed, half-joking. Trevelyan chuckled, as he pulled his staff from the door handle. 

“Not yet, but I’ll talk to Leliana about it.” He smiled. “I was actually leaving the War Room when I saw you, because I wanted to come and give you…” his voice trailed off as he reached down to his pocket. “… this.” He produced a small, iron key, and held it up in the air between them.

“What is…” Dorian began, puzzled by the gesture, until it hit him. “My quarters are ready?!” Trevelyan nodded. Dorian was overjoyed. “Hooray! This _is_ better than sex with you!” 

Trevelyan laughed heartily as they made their way out of the small chamber. They stepped out into the garden. “Come on, let me show you to your room, Master Pavus.” They walked, their legs moving excitedly up the staircase to the row of rooms that overlooked the garden. “Josephine had sent one of her assistants to hand keys out to everyone else,” He said, as they continued down the stone path. “But I insisted on delivering yours personally.” Trevelyan walked quickly to the very last one in the row, and turned to face Dorian, pressing the key into Dorian’s outstretched palm. 

Dorian quickly pushed the key into the keyhole, and turned, opening the door into the room. It was dark, and he conjured flames in his hand to illuminate the space. It was small – at least, smaller than he was accustomed to – but everything he needed was there. A dresser for his scant few possessions, a desk with ink and parchment, a bed, large but not imposing, pressed up against the wall, flanked on either side by twin nightstands. A silvery skull glinted off the nightstand furthest from him. 

“Whose idea was that?” Dorian pointed at it, a tone of incredulity undercutting his words. 

“Do you not like it? I thought you’d appreciate a little flair. Mind you, this is just very simple, for now.” Trevelyan said, his words hurried and rushed, quivering anxiously as they came out of his mouth. _He’s nervous_. “Once things settle down, you are more than welcome to redecorate.” 

_He’s worried I don’t like my room._ Dorian’s heart swelled on the inside. The mighty Inquisitor, reduced to nervous babbling. _How adorable._

“While this is certainly far removed from the finery and comfort that I am acclimated to, I suppose that it will do for now.” Dorian said. “Thank you, Inquisitor.” Trevelyan exhaled loudly through his nose, and turned his head down. “Is something wrong?” Dorian asked.

“Can you…” Trevelyan’s voice trailed off, and he shook his head. “I know you’re teasing, but I would prefer you didn’t call me by my title.”

“Oh?” Dorian asked, genuinely perplexed by this request. 

“It’s… it’s just that…” Trevelyan groped around for the words, his eyes unfocused as they rested, facing down to the floor. “The Inquisitor is an idea that people have in their heads, just like the Herald was. I’ve been working hard, trying to reconcile all of it, and it doesn’t bother me like it used to. But the Inquisitor, the Herald – those ideas are held up, lofty, as if I’m somehow greater or better than the next person. I don’t like when you refer to me that way. I’m not above you, Dorian.”

Dorian recognized instantaneously that this was less about him, and much more about Trevelyan and his own feelings, but it didn’t stop that increasingly familiar heat from creeping into his chest. Dorian had grown to resent that little spark inside himself, that seemed to rise with each new piece of evidence that something more existed between him and Trevelyan other than mind-blowing physicality. _Temper your expectations, Pavus, or you will be crushed under their weight. Trevelyan cares. He cares about Cole and Sera, too. He just isn’t screwing them._

“I harbor no illusions that you are superior to me in any way, _Gabriel_.” Dorian emphasized the name. “Besides, I was on top this evening, which was enough to keep my ego healthily inflated.” Trevelyan laughed politely, before reaching out to Dorian, pulling him forward into a kiss.

“Speaking of sex,” Dorian started, “if you had my room key this entire time, _why_ didn’t you just drag me up here?” 

Trevelyan chuckled. “I figured you’d like to enjoy your bed this evening, really savor the moment, without me getting in the way.”

“How considerate of you. Where I’m from, however, it’s considered good luck to spend your first night in a new bed balls deep in a lover.” 

“That is certainly a lie.” Trevelyan laughed.

“It is, yes, but regardless, I would have invited you in.” Dorian said warmly. “However, I’m sure you will be returning to your quarters, now that you’ve seen me to mine.” 

“Actually, my quarters are still unfinished. The bed should be arriving any day now. Hopefully.”

“So then, where have you been sleeping?” Dorian asked, his eyebrow cocked at Trevelyan, anticipating that he would be displeased with answer.

“Oh, you know. Whatever room I find myself in. The War Room, most often. The kitchen, once.” Dorian’s lips puckered into a thin line across his mouth, and he glared at Trevelyan. 

“And where are you going now?” 

“I’m not quite sure, yet.” Dorian rolled his eyes. He walked over to the door, and proceeded to close it, locking it behind him. “Dorian –“

“No, I will have no arguing. You are sleeping here. You run yourself ragged from dawn to midnight, and you need proper rest, considering you haven’t gotten any for the past month and a half.” Dorian made for the side of his bed, unbuckling his shirt, when he felt Trevelyan grab him from behind, pulling him close to his chest. His lips grazed along Dorian’s head, moving towards his ear. 

“You are too kind to me.” Trevelyan murmured. 

“You quaint, simplistic southerners must be rubbing off on me.” Dorian muttered, trying not to break his displeased face, even though the feeling of Trevelyan’s hands against his sides threatened to tear him away from his disappointment.

“Oh yes, the big, bad, uncaring Tevinter.” Trevelyan laughed, as Dorian finished taking off his shirt. “What did Vivienne say? ' _Such snapping for a fish without teeth_ ’?”

“Remind me of that the next time my mouth is wrapped around your cock.” Dorian said, as he sat on the bed to take off his shoes. Trevelyan laughed heartily.

“Very well, then.” Trevelyan said as he unfastened the buttons on his shirt. “You’re toothier than a pack of wolves.”

“And don’t you forget it.” Dorian said, removing his boots. He stood up to pull his pants down, bending over slightly to tease Trevelyan with a view of his ass. He felt Trevelyan’s hands grab on, rubbing gently into his flesh. Dorian allowed him this pleasure, as he wiggled his feet out of his pants. He stood back up, and turned, breaking Trevelyan’s grip.

“I’ve finished you off twice tonight, and you need a proper night’s rest.” 

“I was just taking a moment to appreciate how perfect your ass is. Is that so detestable?”

“Certainly not.” Dorian said, slipping himself under the covers. “But Maker knows you are far too easily distracted.”

Trevelyan harrumphed, and walked to the unoccupied side of the bed. He finished disrobing, and then rolled into bed next to Dorian. He turned on his side, and looked into his eyes.

“Thank you, again. You didn’t need to do this.” He said, apologetically.

“I wanted to.” Dorian said, smiling back at him. He edged his way closer to Trevelyan, and leaned forward to steal a final kiss for the evening. The softness and the warmth of Trevelyan’s lips kicked up the lust inside of him, but he stamped it back down. The man needed his rest. Dorian pulled back, and smiled, before rolling on to his back. Trevelyan laid in the same position for a moment, his eyes fixed on Dorian, before turning on to other side, facing away. 

_Maker, you’ve waited this long to be close to him. Don’t squander the opportunity._

Dorian turned, pulled Trevelyan closer to him, pressing his chest into Trevelyan’s back once more, his arms wrapped carefully around him, their legs tangling underneath the sheets. He kissed the back of Trevelyan’s neck.

“Good night, Dorian.” Trevelyan murmured.

“Good night, Gabriel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moses, this took a long time to get out. I feel like I haven't talked to you all in a week, and so I feel the need to justify my absence. 
> 
> First, I kind of needed a break.
> 
> Second, Jaws of Hakkon FINALLY came out for PS4 and it was so good.
> 
> Third, I started a new playthrough. Dammit. 
> 
> Fourth, this was a hard chapter to write.
> 
> More on the Fourth:  
> So I wrote like, five different sex scenes, and I had such a miserable time trying to pick out which one to put here. I also wrote myself into a corner, and had to delete like three pages worth of material. I have so many ideas that are branching out, and I'm trying desperately to avoid leaving a ton of loose ends, because that's sloppy, and you deserve to read something of quality.
> 
> Yes, that's right. I actively attempt to control for quality. I understand that this is fan fiction, no big deal, whatever. But I'm spending my time writing this, just like you are spending your time reading this. If I'm not trying to provide you with my best, well, there's really no point for either of us to be here, right? I want you to enjoy reading this as much as I am enjoying myself writing it, and I can't do that unless I'm giving you something worth reading, in my mind.
> 
> So I wrote this chapter, and a bunch of stuff was scattered around, and there were a ton of temporal leaps forward and backward, and it got really confusing. I left some of those in, but I re-arranged for clarity. I HOPE you can kind of follow the timeline, but if you get lost:
> 
> Three weeks after arrival > Hook up on Battlements
> 
> Five weeks after arrival > Named Inquisitor
> 
> A week and change later > Trevelyan shows Dorian the basement library
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it. You deserved a filthy, smutty chapter after all that shit went down with Haven. 
> 
> Also, I spent MDW on the beach with a drink in my hand, so I wasn't getting much writing done.
> 
> Also, I had an interview on Friday, and I got myself an internship for the summer. So I'll be getting paid. I could cry tears of joy.
> 
> Back to the story:
> 
> Solas feigning innocence, HRMMM? 
> 
> Also, the Leliana interaction - what would Leliana know about a mentor betraying her? I hope you catch the reference. I spend a lot of time thinking about specific interactions, and ways to connect Dorian to the advisors and other members of the Inner Circle. I know that I've focused on some more heavily than others (Vivienne, Cassandra) but others will be getting their turns soon (Cullen, Cole), I'm just waiting for the right moments to pull them in. 
> 
> Again, thank you for all your comments and kudos! I really do cherish my little interactions I have on here. You're all so wonderful and positive and encouraging. All my love!


	16. The Bedroom and the War Room

Dorian awoke, his body sunken into the plush mattress, his limbs heavy with sleep and the joy of finally being pressed against something other than hard ground or wood floorboards. He sighed contentedly, as he looked over to his side, to see Trevelyan buried face-first in his own pillow, his hair a wild tangle sprawling out in every direction like weeds that hadn’t been properly trimmed. Dorian could only see the slightest bit of his visage peering out, his gaze lingering on Trevelyan’s relaxed face. _The poor bastard needed this._

Dorian rested his head back against his pillow, and closed his eyes, perfectly content to drift back to sleep. Memories of the night before, of their tryst in the chamber off the courtyard floated lazily through his mind. The sun shone through the window in the corner of his room, but thankfully, the light was minimal, and hopefully, Trevelyan would be able to get some rest. 

“Mmmph.” Trevelyan murmured. _Wonderful._ He picked his head up, his puffy eyes squinting against the dim light of morning. He grumbled lowly. “I should get up.”

 _I can’t get him to stay by guilting him about his own well-being. Maybe a different tack will work._ “And leave me here by my lonesome?” Dorian asked, his voice deep and dry with the sound of morning.

“They’re going to come looking for me, and this will probably be their first stop.” Trevelyan began to roll over. 

“Let them come to you, for once. Unless you’re that eager to leave my bed.” Dorian said playfully. Trevelyan rolled back, wrapping himself around Dorian, and kissing him delicately on his lips. He slipped himself down, his head resting against Dorian’s shoulder, his arm wrapped across Dorian’s waist, an inversion of their positions that night in Haven.

“You’re right.” Trevelyan sighed. “We haven’t had a chance to do this since Haven. It seems like a lifetime ago.” 

“Speaking of Haven, how are you holding up? You’ve barely had a moment to think since that night.”

“It’s hard.” Trevelyan said. “So many people died for my sake. I can’t help but wonder how many more names will be added to the tally by the time we defeat Corypheus. I…” he stopped for a moment, before turning his head up to Dorian. “Between you and I, I’ve shed my fair share of tears over all of it, which just leaves me feeling selfish. _I_ was the lucky one. _I_ made it out alive. I shouldn’t be crying. I should be leading.” Trevelyan’s chin rested on Dorian’s chest, his eyes mournful, but dry. 

“They died for the cause, not for you. None of them knew why Corypheus was attacking. None of us did, until we’d retreated to the Chantry, at which point you sacrificed yourself – recklessly, I might add – so they could all beat a hasty retreat. For as many that died, consider how many yet live because of your actions. You cannot continue to carry the weight of all those bodies around on your shoulders.” Dorian leaned forward to kiss him on his nose. “I understand how it must feel, thinking that there was something more you could have done, if only you had known.”

Trevelyan’s eyes rested in their sorrow. “You mean like Felix?”

Dorian hadn’t been thinking about Felix specifically, but when Trevelyan mentioned him by name, he suddenly realized why he was feeling especially empathetic. He cleared his throat, and stared up at the ceiling. “I suppose I do. We did everything we could to slow the Blight, and bought Felix years he’d never have had without our care. Alexius and I kept waiting for a sudden turn for the worse, but it never came. His health has deteriorated, surely, but he’s lived longer than anyone I’ve ever known who had contracted the Blight. I can’t imagine he has much longer.” Dorian’s voice had dropped to a light whisper. 

“Is it almost a relief? To know that he won’t suffer any longer?” Trevelyan asked, his tone cautious and kind.

“I suppose so.” Dorian murmured. 

Trevelyan lifted himself up, and kissed Dorian deeply. Dorian closed his eyes, and lost himself in the motion of their lips, like waves, slowly pulling the sadness away from his mind. Trevelyan lifted his face, gazing down at Dorian. “You know that I’m here, if you ever need me?” Dorian stared up at him. “I know this can’t be easy for you, so far from home, the lone Tevinter.” 

“It’s not like I had crowds of friends and admirers back home. What good is pariah-hood if you aren’t alienating everyone around you, no matter where you find yourself?”

“Ah, yes. You’ve been alone all this time, so you’re just fine.” Trevelyan said, picking his head up. “I suppose I understand – feeling alone and continuing on in spite of it all.” He looked down at Dorian, his eyes warm and kind. “Thing is, I don’t want to be alone forever.” Dorian stared up at the dreamy face above him, which dipped down to meet his lips with a deep, slow kiss. Dorian’s eyes fluttered to a close, as he lost himself in the embrace. 

Trevelyan’s lips were sublime, and Dorian could think of no better exaltation than to return their passion with his own fervor. He’d never really thought about it – how hard it had been, being alone for so long – or maybe he’d just become expert at ignoring the pangs. He’d learned to how to temper the dull ache, like he had many others, for the sake of surviving. But he’d grown so accustomed to his ways, so fully accepted his lot in life that he wondered if could he even begin to change. 

The hope swelled up in his heart. He moved to push it back down, like he had so many times before – the rote mechanism triggering automatically – but he stopped himself. Hadn’t hope been what carried the Inquisition to Skyhold? Hadn’t hope kept the mages and the Templars from killing each other? Maybe hope wasn’t as bad as he’d remembered. His mind reeled in reaction to the feeling rising in his chest, fighting desperately to keep his senses about him. _What good has hope done you in the past?_

Dorian pushed everything aside, and plunged fully into the kiss.

Trevelyan’s hand gently stroked at Dorian’s face, and Dorian’s arms wrapped around the shoulders above him. Trevelyan pulled away, staring at Dorian, his eyes full of the soft kindness that seemed reserved only for him, and for once, Dorian returned the gesture with abandon. Trevelyan smiled down at him, before returning to his lips once more for a quiet, chaste kiss. Trevelyan slid back, laying his head upon Dorian’s chest once more. 

“You’ve got me. Let’s go back to sleep.” Trevelyan said, the low strum of his voice reverberating through Dorian’s chest. Dorian’s fingers gently rubbed across Trevelyan’s back, light as a feather, until he drifted away. 

___

 

He spent all day basking in the afterglow of his late morning with Gabriel. The memory of the warmth and fire that spread through his body while he was in his bed had made the drafty castle feel like a summer day on the docks of Minrathous. He was somewhere between pleasantly elated or positively giddy, and his better senses mocked him for his foolish optimism.

_You already know how this is going to end, Pavus. A man can only evade his destiny so many times before it catches up to him, and it no doubt will. And where does that leave you? Right back where you started._

The hours of the day drifted by lazily, and in spite of his best efforts, Dorian could barely pay attention to the books in front of him. His mind kept wandering back to Trevelyan, the shimmer of the moonlight against his tanned skin, the sounds of his low moans filling the chamber, Trevelyan’s accommodating tautness as Dorian pushed inside of him. Dorian promised himself that he wouldn’t let Trevelyan evade his grasp for as long as he had.

The sun began to set over the horizon, and Dorian made his way to the Main Hall for supper. Trevelyan was seated at a table full of nobles, regaling them with the story of surviving the assault on Haven. It was the same story, told the same way, over and over again to a new audience each evening. He’d dazzle them with the tale of standing against one of the Magisters responsible for the Blight and his Archdemon, his miraculous survival, and his arduous return to the Inquisition through a blinding blizzard. He, Josephine, and Vivienne had crafted the tale together, spending hours debating proper word choice and content when they’d first arrived at Skyhold. Dorian had been invited, thanks largely to his crafty tongue, but had mostly remained quiet, only offering a suggestion when he could think of a suitable turn of phrase or verbal flourish. 

Vivienne was adamant that Trevelyan must credit the hand of the Maker and boldly declare that he had been chosen. Trevelyan disagreed. Josephine, ever the peacemaker, came up with the compromise – ‘plausible deniability’ she had called it – where Trevelyan would acknowledge the Maker, Andraste, and his own faith in only the vaguest of terms, to give the slightest of hints, allowing the nobles to fill in the blanks, but never claiming that he was, in fact, handpicked. This rhetorical open-endedness would leave enough room for the nobility to draw their own conclusions, and allow them to invest their faith – and their coin – as they so chose. 

_She’s crafty_ , Dorian had thought to himself. _Maybe she’d be able to secure you an invitation to the Wintersend Ball in Lydes._

Dorian picked through his dinner slowly, watching Trevelyan’s performance, recited perfectly, each pause measured, each sigh practiced, waiting for the appropriate responses: the slight gasp at the Magister’s claim that the Golden City had already been corrupted, hands raised to cover mouths that dropped in shock as the avalanche poured down the mountainside, the raucous cheers that erupted when the hero was saved from certain death after weathering a blizzard. 

Trevelyan had reached the coda of his tale. “I stood before the members of our Inquisition, listening as the Chant echoed off the mountainside, their song reaching the very heavens. Were it that I could truly express to you the gravity of that moment, but there are no words for what we all shared that night in the cold. We were bruised and battered, but we were not beaten. The song was our promise that no matter what trials we might face, we would find a way to save Thedas from the menace that is Corypheus.” 

He stared around the table, catching eyes with each noble, as they all looked at him in awestruck adulation. Dorian wondered if Trevelyan had gotten acclimated to the looks he received after reciting the tale of his heroism. Dorian’s mind flashed to the end of that meeting, where Trevelyan had expressed his doubts about the story. “I feel like I’m prostituting myself for the sake of a few extra sovereigns in our coffers.”

“There are far worse things you could do for coin.” Dorian helpfully reminded him. Trevelyan had laughed, but it rang false, an attempt to cover up his doubt. 

“As vulgar as that suggestion might be, I couldn’t agree more.” Vivienne added. “My dear, you are offering them nothing more than a tale of triumph and heroism. They will decide what to believe, as you wished, and they will respond in kind, by helping to fund our righteous cause or to offer vocal support for our valiant efforts.” Trevelyan nodded his approval at Vivienne, but when she turned away, he had glanced over to Dorian to roll his eyes, exasperated.

Dorian finished his dinner, and caught a quick glance from Trevelyan, who smiled warmly at him. The servants took Dorian’s plates away, and offered him a fresh glass of wine, which he readily accepted. He took the glass upstairs, turning to sneak one last peek at Trevelyan before he exited the main hall, and saw him tilt his head back in laughter. _He really ought to learn how to feign laughter a bit better than that_ , Dorian thought. 

He returned to his alcove, carefully setting his wine glass on the ledge of his windowsill next to the burning candle, careful to magic the glass to the ledge so that it wouldn’t slip and irreparably damage a priceless tome. He recalled the mandatory training he had to endure when he’d first been allowed access to the library in the Minrathous Circle, which had been titled something along the lines of, ‘How to Avoid Careless Destruction of Ancient Works and Artifacts,’ although it should have been ‘How to Bore Dorian to Sleep.’ He’d only had to endure one day of that buffoonery, after approaching the instructor and proving that he knew and used each and every ward and spell she would teach them.

_You always were ahead of the curve, Pavus._

Dorian grabbed at the first book his eyes wandered to, and read the cover. _Orlesian Architecture of the Steel Age. Riveting._ He flipped open the first page, and his eyes wandered across the sentences, but his mind was unfocused, and the two mages who’d wandered in the library were certainly not helping, as they gossiped loudly. Dorian had half a mind to pick himself up from his chair and tell them off, but he quickly stifled the urge. _Careful, Pavus. You’re so worried about turning into your father, you forgot that turning into your mother is an equally detestable fate._

Luckily for Dorian, staying silent was the correct course of action. 

“Have you heard? About the Inquisitor?”

“What exactly?”

“Apparently, he and his Tevinter paramour had a _very_ late morning.” The pair broke into giggles. 

“I don’t understand why the Inquisitor is carrying on with him. It’s not blood magic, that’s for sure, or someone would have figured it out by now.”

“Maybe the Herald should re-read the Chant. If he truly was sent by Andraste, he ought to remember what happened to her, at the hands of Tevinters.”

 _Calm down, Pavus. Burning them at the stake would just be playing to everyone’s expectations._ Still, the thought was appealing. He quietly imagined them being licked up by angry flames and smiled. 

“Excuse me.” Another voice, with a disturbingly flattened affect. The tranquil, Helisma. “Are you both aware that Master Pavus is in the library?” Dorian heard one of them gasp lowly, and then the shuffle of feet and nervous giggles as they quickly vacated the room. Dorian huffed, and continued gazing at the page in front of him.

None of this was new to Dorian, of course. The gossip, the snickering, the whispers, the eyes that darted in his direction: in this regard, Skyhold differed in no way from the Imperium. Dorian had always been a most intriguing subject, loosening the tightest of lips, hidden behind silk fans as they endlessly repeated whatever salacious morsel they might have heard concerning Magister Pavus’ only son, and whatever new way he’d invented to bring shame upon such a respected and well-established house. The only difference was that in Skyhold, no one was concerned with his pedigree – the name of his house and his standing in Tevinter society meant nothing to the unrefined Southern masses. The fact that he was ‘of Tevinter’ was damning enough; additional details were not required.

His association with the upper echelon of the Inquisition’s leadership was what troubled the hand-wringing clerics and rank-and-file. Disconcerting, apparently, that a Tevinter Magister had wormed his way into the Inquisitor’s innermost circle, and furthermore, into his bed, not that Trevelyan had a bed to speak of at the moment – but why bother with petty trivialities? Whatever could the Inquisitor be thinking, when the other members of the Inquisition’s leadership had kept Dorian at arms’ length? Surely, they had all been polite, but their show of gratitude for his service stopped just short of welcoming, save for Cole, but then again, that boy was an outlier in more ways than Dorian could count.

“Master Pavus?” The dull tone of Helisma’s voice called to him from the entrance to his alcove. He turned his eyes toward her in acknowledgement. “I have finished my research for the evening. Would you like me to leave the torches burning?” 

“Yes, Helisma, that should be fine. Thank you.” Dorian said. She bowed respectfully.

“Good night, Master Pavus.” 

“And to you, Helisma.” She wandered down the winding stairwell that lead into the rotunda below. Dorian had seen her, watching intently, as Solas had begun to adorn the walls with magnificent frescos, which told Trevelyans’ tale in the richest of hues, each image bleeding into the next. Solas stood staring at the walls for hours on end without raising his brush, pondering every stroke he would make, and Helisma stood at the balcony, gazing down, almost as intently as Solas, as though she could see the images forming in his mind against the blank walls. He wondered what provoked her to stray from her research duties. Did something about Solas’ masterful craft call to a part of her, long since stamped out by the lyrium brand on her forehead? He’d heard Trevelyan speaking with her upon her arrival at Skyhold, and couldn’t help but overhear that she’d been made tranquil due to her willful nature. 

_Thankfully, you were born in the Imperium, or else they would have ruined your face with that Chantry Sunburst._

The library was empty, again, thankfully. No more fool southerners prattling on about the Inquisitor’s poor choice in company. Funny, how none of them seemed at all perturbed by the Ben-Hassrath spy in their midst, or the elf girl who was quite possibly insane. They certainly would be perturbed by the spirit boy appearing and disappearing at will within the walls of their fortress, if only he’d let them remember him. 

But they weren’t fighting the Arishok, or a rogue cabal of Dalish separatists. The foes of the Inquisition, the Venatori, and Corypheus himself, had turned the word ‘Tevinter’ from a mild insult into an unspeakable profanity. Unfortunately, Dorian was Tevinter, and had absolutely no interest in justifying the misfortune of having been born within the borders of the Imperium, because it was not, contrary to the opinion of everyone around him, misfortune. Being born in the Imperium had been a blessing, in spite of all that he’d endured in the name of his birthright. He’d never have been able to achieve half of what he’d accomplished locked away in some southern mage prison. He’d never been in the business of apologizing for his superiority, and he certainly wouldn’t break that habit for the sake of appeasing a bunch of simple southerners. 

He, after all, was not the Inquisitor. He didn’t need to worry about having mass appeal. 

It had been some time since Helisma had left, and several torches had burned out in her absence. He picked up another book and began to flick through its well-worn pages, when he heard footsteps coming up the stairwell. He kept his head down in his novel, casting a look up every so often. After a page of back-and-forth gazing, the footsteps stopped just in front of him. He stared up again to find Trevelyan leaning ever so calmly against the edge of the alcove.

“I see you’ve started working your way though the books from the basement.” He said, his face just barely grazed by the candlelight.

“Riveting stuff, truly. Some of these books date back to the Steel Age, possibly even the Exalted. Thank you, again, for showing me that room.”

“My pleasure.” Trevelyan said. His voice rumbled low in his chest. “Speaking of pleasure, I was hoping I’d find you here.”

Dorian’s ears perked up. “Oh? Whatever for?” He feigned ignorance. 

Trevelyan stepped forward. “I don’t think I had my fill of you last night.”

Dorian felt the heat behind his eyes, and unintentionally bit his lower lip. Trevelyan stood, hovering above him, waiting for a response. Dorian flipped a page in his book. “I had been hoping to get some more work done,” he said coyly. 

“You don’t need to stop what you’re doing.” Trevelyan dropped to his knees in front of Dorian’s chair. He smiled wickedly up at Dorian, his hands grabbing on to Dorian’s thighs, sliding up slowly. Dorian focused intently on the book in front of him. He felt Trevelyan’s hand slide over his cock, sending a rush of heat through him. He could feel it beginning to swell. His eyes were steadfastly focused on his book, but he spread his legs further apart. 

“A tempting offer.” Dorian said, “Alright, then. Just try not to be too disruptive.” He heard the deep chuckle rising from Trevelyan, whose hand magicked open Dorian’s pants, and began to pull them down. Dorian felt the weight of his semi-erect cock fall out of his trousers, and Gabriel’s hand was quick to catch it, gently stroking the length, feeling it grow in his hand. Dorian hadn’t read a word. _Transfiguration. All right, you read a word._

He felt Trevelyan’s greedy mouth take his cock, his full lips sliding down Dorian’s length, until all of Dorian was inside of him. Dorian fought the gasp that tried to escape his throat. Trevelyan’s head rose back up, his mouth sucking greedily, Dorian’s stomach tightening in a visceral response. Trevelyan repeated the motion, bobbing his head down, the entirety of Dorian in his throat once more, before pulling back again. _Kaffas_. He gripped the book with both hands, blocking Trevelyan’s view of his face.

Trevelyan’s mouth continued its mission, sucking hungrily at Dorian, and Dorian couldn’t keep up his pretense any further. He closed the book and carefully placed it on the shelf to his side, before turning his complete attention to Trevelyan, whose eyes stared up greedily at Dorian, before pulling his mouth off Dorian’s cock and replacing it with his hand. He slid his tongue down Dorian’s shaft while his hand jerked Dorian’s cock. He wrapped his mouth around Dorian’s balls, taking them into his mouth as he continued to stroke Dorian’s cock. Dorian moaned lightly, and Trevelyan moved, taking Dorian’s cock into his mouth once again. 

Dorian’s hand found its way to the back of Trevelyan’s head, pulling his topknot loose and watching the hair cascade around his face. Trevelyan looked up at Dorian, the silvery streaks framing his darkened eyes, and Dorian shook underneath his gaze. Dorian’s hands wound their way through Trevelyan’s hair, and he rested them gently on Trevelyan’s head, careful to follow Trevelyan’s lead.

Trevelyan had been working his mouth and hand with an increasing intensity, and Dorian’s hips began to rock forward into his mouth. Trevelyan delighted at the response he was eliciting, and he moaned into Dorian’s lap, the sound stifled by his full mouth. His hands slid under Dorian’s thighs and threw them over his shoulders, forcing his head down further into Dorian’s loins. Dorian shuddered violently, and continued to rock into Trevelyan’s mouth, his hands beginning to guide Trevelyan’s head down his length. 

Trevelyan was determined, his eyes staring up at Dorian, who looked down long enough to melt under Trevelyan’s haze. Dorian threw his head back, moaning, quite possibly a little too loudly. Trevelyan didn’t seem to care, and he continued to aggressively swallow as much of Dorian as he could take. 

He began to feel the sensation rise inside of him. 

“Careful there. I’m getting close.”

Trevelyan picked his head up, his mouth dripping with saliva. _Kaffas._ “I thought you said you could keep up with me? Unless you were just bluffing,” Trevelyan said, every word an arrogant challenge, his hand still working Dorian’s cock, his tongue gently flicking at the tip. Dorian’s eyes narrowed, his hands twisting in Trevelyan’s hair, yanking his head back every so slightly, denying him access to Dorian’s throbbing member. Trevelyan gasped slightly at the force, his eyes hungry and wanting, his lips quivering eagerly.

“You want it?” Dorian asked. Trevelyan’s eyes darted up to Dorian’s, angry thin slits that burned with impatience. “How often does one have the Inquisitor on his knees?” Dorian chuckled lightly. Trevelyan’s head darted forward, and his tongue lashed out against Dorian’s cock. Dorian pushed his head back, his own little brand of torture. “You could at least humor me.”

Trevelyan’s mouth tightened into an angry line, as he glared up at Dorian. But then, his eyes softened, and his lips parted, flush and plump. He inhaled deeply and stared up at Dorian.

“Please,” he murmured, the faintest shade of desperation coloring his otherwise indignant tone.

_Kaffas._

Dorian loosed his grip on Trevelyan’s head, and he uncoiled, grabbing at Dorian’s cock, eagerly taking it into his mouth, and Dorian’s head rolled back in ecstasy. Trevelyan’s mouth and hand worked up and down Dorian’s shaft, and his other hand slid up underneath Dorian’s shirt, grasping ferociously at his chest, Trevelyan’s fingers teasing and pinching at his nipples. Dorian’s body rocked violently against the Herald’s determined mouth, pushing more of himself in with each thrust, Trevelyan’s throat accommodating as much of Dorian as possible and then some.

All Dorian could hear were the sounds of his strained breathing and the slick sounds of his dick in Trevelyan’s warm mouth. He looked down at Trevelyan, whose eyes had never left Dorian’s face, fixated on his prey. Dorian was entranced, and soon, the sensation flooded his body again, the warmth spreading out to the tips of his fingers and toes. His head swam with heat, and he managed to choke out a warning.

“ _Kaffas_. I’m going to…” 

Dorian exploded violently inside of Trevelyan’s mouth. Trevelyan suctioned down on Dorian as his cock pulsated furiously. Trevelyan’s eyes rolled back into his head before closing, as Dorian felt the pull of his throat muscles swallowing every drop. Dorian’s hips rolled forward into Gabriel’s mouth, his hands pushing Gabriel’s head down, his body controlled by the primal need to fill Gabriel completely. 

Dorian felt the final shudders of his orgasm, but Trevelyan had not been sated. He continued to suckle at Dorian, desperate to relish every last drop. Dorian’s cock tingled violently in protest, unable to handle Trevelyan’s determination for much longer. 

“Come on, let it go!” Dorian said, laughing. Trevelyan pulled his head back, continuing to slide his hand up Dorian’s length, sending shocks throughout Dorian’s body. “You’re… aaaaahhh! You’re going to be… eeeee… the death of me!” Dorian managed to gasp.

Trevelyan stopped stroking, and slid his face up to Dorian’s. His mouth grazed Dorian’s lips, before pulling him into a profane kiss, his lips working Dorian’s as hard as they’d worked his cock just moments ago. Dorian could taste himself on Trevelyan’s tongue, and felt practically intoxicated by the potent combination of Gabriel and his seed. 

Trevelyan pulled away, his mouth coated in a sheen of saliva. “How is it that you taste so _delicious_?” He said the last word with a bite, before ducking his head back down in between Dorian’s legs, running his tongue along Dorian’s cock, which had not deflated as much as it ought to. He immediately came back to Dorian’s lips, and Dorian welcome him readily. They were stuck like this for minutes, it seemed, Dorian attempting to catch a breath wherever he might, in spite of Trevelyan’s onslaught.

Trevelyan pulled back again, standing up this time. “Come on. The night doesn’t end here.”

Dorian melted into his chair, his legs still unable to function properly. “What did you have in mind?” He said lazily. 

“Something special.” Trevelyan murmured, bending over to nibble on Dorian’s ear. “Tuck yourself back in and we’ll take a walk.” 

“I can’t imagine you can walk much of anywhere with that.” Dorian pointed toward Trevelyan’s dick, which was harshly outlined by the dull grey pants that Josephine insisted he wear. Dorian could have sworn he saw the slightest dark spot in the fabric near the tip of Trevelyan’s member. _He’s already excited._

“Didn’t you hear Josie the first time? ‘I understand your sartorial objections to the Inquisitor’s garments,’” Trevelyan mimicked her Antivan accent flawlessly. “’But unfortunately, most of the coin gifted to the Inquisition has been spent on repairs to Skyhold, as well as feeding and fitting our troops.’” 

“I still don’t believe that was a satisfactory excuse for not putting aside a few extra sovereigns so you could wear something other than pajamas.” 

“You’re stalling. Get your pants back on, or I’ll throw you over my shoulder with your bare ass hanging out.” Trevelyan growled.

“Alright, alright.” Dorian was well aware that the threat wasn’t idle. Trevelyan was sturdy. He wondered if all Marchers possessed that bestial strength. He stood up, quickly tucking himself back into his pants and pulling them up, fastening them closed with a flick of his wrist.

Trevelyan moved toward him, his breath hot against Dorian’s neck, and Dorian’s head rolled back, instinctively allowing Trevelyan’s mouth access to his throat. But Trevelyan didn’t take the bait, instead licking his fingers and putting out the candle beside Dorian. The only light that remained was a weak torch at the other end of the library.

Trevelyan’s tongue slid gently up Dorian’s neck. Dorian moaned. When Trevelyan pulled back, Dorian looked for his eyes, which glowed green, the energy of the Fade coursing through them. He grabbed Dorian’s hands, and lead him out of the alcove. 

Before Dorian knew what had happened, Trevelyan had bowed down, planting his arm into Dorian’s hip and heaving him over his shoulder. Dorian yelped, smacking at Trevelyan, kicking his legs in an attempt to right himself. “Put me down, or I will light your ass on fire.” Trevelyan chuckled lightly at Dorian’s protest, as he started to walk towards the door, his footsteps as light as though he wasn’t carrying anything at all.

“Burning my ass would ruin my plan, and you wouldn’t want to do that, now, would you?” Trevelyan said, his voice low. _He’s toying with you, Pavus_. Still, Trevelyan complied, lowering Dorian to the floor gently. Once he’d righted himself, Trevelyan grabbed him, pulling him close into a kiss. Dorian resisted momentarily before giving in, sliding his tongue into Trevelyan’s open mouth, Trevelyan’s tongue responding with a gentle wave. Some part of him relished at the show of strength. He was loath to relinquish even a bit of control, but there was something about Trevelyan. _He’d never abuse that trust_ , Dorian thought. 

“Come on,” Trevelyan said, grabbing at Dorian’s hand, pulling him through the door that led down to the main hall. He trudged down the stairs impatiently, with Dorian close in tow. They made their way across the main hall, through the door toward Josephine’s office. Everyone would be asleep at this hour. He paused, pondering where exactly Trevelyan was planning on taking him. _There’s no possible way he hopes to…_

They had come to the door in Josephine’s office that lead to the War Room. An Inquisition Soldier stood outside of the door, but moved to the side immediately as the pair approached. He gave Trevelyan a light, respectful nod, which Trevelyan returned in kind, before opening up the door and ushering Dorian through. He closed the door behind them, and turned, his voice murmuring something imperceptible. Dorian felt the Fade pull over the door. 

He turned and wrapped his arm around Dorian’s waist. “Come with me,” he said, as he guided them towards the imposing wooden doors at the end of the hallway. Moonlight streamed through the unrepaired walls, the icy silver light reflecting off Trevelyan’s hair as he gazed intently at their destination.

“Are they ever going to fix those, or are we just going to allow the walls to remained unpatched in perpetuity?” Dorian asked.

“I’ll get right on top of that, once I’m done with you.”

“What about that soldier back there?” Dorian asked.

“I managed to tuck away enough sovereigns to pay him to keep everyone out of the War Room. He’s been told to let everyone know that the Inquisitor is busy, and is not to be interrupted under any circumstances.”

“I’m sorry, I was under the mistaken impression that you were leading an army of the faithful. It’s lamentable that you need to bribe your men to keep your confidences, instead of them volunteering to cut out their tongues so they may never spill your secrets.”

“He needs his tongue to turn people away. Wouldn’t do either of us much good if he was mute.” Trevelyan reached a hand out, and waved it over the door to the War Room. The smaller door, inlaid in the larger, sprung open. Trevelyan stood at the entrance, gracefully waving Dorian in. “After you, Master Pavus.” Dorian rolled his eyes at the formality, and turned to enter the room. 

The moonlight streamed through the glass windows, illuminating the enormous chamber, possibly the largest room in the castle other than the Main Hall. Trevelyan waved a hand, and several candles around the room ignited. In the center was a table, large, made of wood, supported by a gnarled, ancient tree stump, whose roots seem to dig into the stone below. _Impressive._

“They just finished the table today. I’m sure you have thoughts.”

“It certainly evokes a sense of power, a oneness with nature, in its simple, rustic way, of course.” Dorian opined. Trevelyan laughed. He walked across the room, to a chair on the other side. He waved his hand over a thick blanket, which unfurled itself in midair and laid itself across the table. He made his way back to the table, two glasses and a bottle of red wine in his glowing hand. He rested the glasses on the table delicately, and grabbed the cork of the bottle between his teeth, yanking it out quickly.

“How refined.” Dorian said in a deadpan.

Trevelyan pulled the cork from between his lips. “Sorry. I’ve been using my mouth all night long. Talking to nobles, sucking you off.” He chuckled. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with it before.” His hand extended to Dorian, offering a glass. 

Dorian’s eyes narrowed in mock annoyance, and he grabbed for the glass, swirling it underneath his nose. The bouquet hit him immediately, and his mouth and eyes watered in response.

“Please don’t tell me this is one of those bottles you dredged up from the back of some dingy, long-forgotten cavern.” Dorian sniffed again. He could feel the citrus and cinnamon tickling his nose, and the delightful undercurrents of vanilla and oak made his head swim. He closed his eyes and saw his homeland stretched out before him.

“You forget I have a key to the wine cellar. You ought to be a little nicer, if you ever want to get your hands on it.” Trevelyan mocked, before clinking his glass against Dorian’s in a silent toast. “This bottle was actually given to me this evening, by one of the nobles who had visited. Said it was his favorite, made by a vintner out of some obscure, backwater Tevinter town. I’m sure you wouldn’t even know the name of it.”

“Qarinus. The wine is from a vineyard Qarinus.” Trevelyan smiled at Dorian’s recognition. “I know you’re trying to tease me, but I’m too distracted for you to provoke much of a reaction.” He took a gentle sip at first, letting the wine cascade over his tongue. He’d drank this same brew countless times. His father had, in fact, invested a considerable sum in the vineyard after a particularly nasty drought, in order to help keep the business afloat. Magister Halward had been rewarded for that investment in the years after, when the Pavus family was gifted with barrels of the stuff: so many, in fact, that they’d hosted several galas designed to deplete their reserves. 

Dorian savored it so, this sweet little taste of everything he’d left behind.

Trevelyan moved to his side, and his head moved forward. Dorian turned reflexively to greet his mouth, but Trevelyan stopped, ducking down to his neck. 

“Enjoy the wine. I can keep myself occupied.” He said, before planting his lips on Dorian’s jawline, slowly maneuvering his way down the side of Dorian’s neck. Dorian’s head rolled back in ecstasy, as he took another sip from his glass. Trevelyan moved back, and took a deep pull of his drink.

“It’s good.” Trevelyan said.

“It’s better than good, and you’d know that if they made anything of quality out in the Marches.” Dorian said, possibly a little too caustically.

“Ouch.” Trevelyan moaned, playfully. “And here I thought this might soften that cutting tongue of yours.”

“I apologize.” Dorian sighed. “It was a long day. I shouldn’t take it out on you, I know.”

“Especially when I just sucked you off _and brought_ you an exceptional bottle of wine.” Trevelyan said, his eyebrows arched at Dorian.

_You really stepped in it this time, Pavus. The one person who has consistently gone out of his way to make your time in the Inquisition bearable, and you behave like an ungrateful child._

“It’s alright.” Trevelyan said, turning away from Dorian, moving back toward the War Table. The sudden distance was jarring. “I’ll have you know that my grandmother was Orlesian, and my mother has quite the palate for wine. Mind you, she would still drink just about anything. My father’s running joke, after my Aunt Lucille’s Summer Balls,” Trevelyan’s voice dropped low and serious, “‘you could stick a spigot in that woman and get drunk off her blood!’”

Dorian laughed politely. Trevelyan had never really spoken about his family before this. He stared at Trevelyan, his eyes wide with curiosity. “So you have some Orlesian in your lineage? If it weren’t for your name, I never would have guessed; you’re far too pragmatic.”

“I was named for my mother’s grandfather. And that isn’t even the most interesting part of my ancestry.” Trevelyan said, raising his glass to his lips and arching his eyebrows at Dorian, as if beckoning Dorian to follow up.

“Oh, really? Well, then, that begs the question: What is?” Dorian asked. Trevelyan smiled, and grabbed for the bottle. He poured himself another glass, and then moved forward to Dorian, spilling the remainder of its contents into Dorian’s. 

“I must swear you to secrecy before I divulge this dark stain on House Trevelyan’s honor.” He said, his chin raised in mock seriousness.

“I solemnly swear on my honor as a Tevinter.”

“That’s no good; Tevinters have no honor.”

“ _Vishante Kaffas!_ ”

“That’ll do.” Trevelyan smiled. “Rumor has it – and by rumor, I mean my drunken Uncle Gawain, shouting a little too loudly at one of those Summer Balls – there is elven blood in the Trevelyan family tree.”

Dorian gasped in feigned shock. “No! How awful! Well, at least it’s not Qunari. Were there any further details, or was that all you got from the man?”

“Apparently, my great-great-grandmother on my father’s side had fallen in love with a young elven boy, a mage, from a Dalish clan that had been living on the outskirts of Ostwick. With hair as silver as the light of the full moon!” He flicked errantly at the strands on his own head. “They planned to elope together, but her parents had them tracked down. The elven boy was killed, and she was dragged back to their estate and quickly forced to marry a Marcher boy, my great-great-grandfather, Raghnall Trevelyan. From what I understood, he was always kind to her, even though she’d drowned herself in her sorrows and never quite came back up for air. Either way, shortly after their nuptials, she became pregnant, and gave birth to a son with impossibly delicate, angular features, who looked not at all like her husband. Bless the man, he raised the child as his own, even though he must have known the truth from the moment he was born.”

“He must have been a wonderful man.”

“He took the family motto very seriously. ‘Modest in temper, bold in deed.’” Trevelyan’s voice repeated the words in a dull, lifeless monotone. “I wish I’d had the chance to know him.” Trevelyan looked wistfully, his gaze cast down at the floor between Dorian and himself. He shook his head. “In any case, no child in the Trevelyan family has ever had silvery-blonde hair, until the day I was born. And there have been no mages in my family for at least two ages. So, for him, I was proof that there was a kernel of truth in that old tale.”

“Well, it’s hardly enough for you to consider yourself elven.”

“And how much elven blood runs through your veins?”

“Not a drop.” Dorian said. “Even a suggestion that you’d intermingled with an elf, much less bore a half-elf child, would cause such a scandal, it would bring the oldest of houses to its knees.”

“Exactly. That my house might have survived, and even thrived, on the bones of a dead elven boy…” Trevelyan sighed heavily. “I want to fix it. I know I cannot single-handedly eliminate injustice across Thedas, but I want this Inquisition to stand for change. Elves have suffered so much at the hands of our ancestors. I can’t right every wrong, but I can use my hands to build a better future.” He lifted his hand, and the Anchor glowed brightly in response to his words. 

“An admirable goal. You do realize you’re fighting an uphill battle, correct? Not even Andraste herself could manage to uplift the elves. The Chantry struck the Canticle of Shartan from the Chant without a second thought.”

Trevelyan clenched his jaw, and set his brow sternly, his eyes burning, glowing green in the darkened room. “I have to believe that we can be better, do better, than those who have come before us. It keeps me grounded, gives me purpose. I can’t just be a marked hand. If I want to do a half-decent job at leading the Inquisition, I have to pick a direction in which to lead, and that is my choice. Peace and prosperity for all Theodosians.”

Trevelyan looked at Dorian sternly, but behind his gaze, Dorian could see a tiny little glint, one that he recognized all too easily – he was looking for approval. How many times had he been in Trevelyan’s shoes, that same glint in his own eyes? He reached behind Trevelyan, and set his half-full glass down upon the War Table. He moved his hands up to Trevelyan’s face.

“If that is where you choose to lead, then I will gladly follow. As long as you promise you will avoid causing another avalanche. ” Dorian smiled, and kissed him deeply. Trevelyan grabbed Dorian with his free hand, pulling him tight against his body. Each kiss with him felt deeper, more grounded in reality, than it had before, maybe because Trevelyan revealed a little piece of himself each time they were alone, a glimpse at the man behind the mark that no one else got to see. 

Meanwhile, Dorian continued to tiptoe around any deeper revelations. He wondered how much longer he could continue his evasive dance, before Trevelyan would push him for an answer. But would he? Leliana had said Trevelyan wanted to hear those stories from Dorian’s own mouth. But this particular dance was another old habit, hard to break. No one in Tevinter cared, at least not for long enough, to listen to any of Dorian’s stories. He wondered if Trevelyan would look at him differently, knowing how he’d cut a swath clean through the Imperium, fueled by liquor, self-loathing, and his family’s coin. Dorian shuddered internally. He wasn’t quite ready to lose the way Trevelyan looked at him. 

Trevelyan pulled back, his eyes aglow. _That, right there._ He felt the flames rolls forth again. It was the simplest of gestures but it elicited the most complex response. The hope welled up, and Dorian stamped down. He lost himself to passion, and righted himself with reason. How could a pair of eyes do so much, with only a few crinkles at their edges?

“So, I imagine you didn’t just bring me here for wine and conversation.” Dorian said, gesturing to the blanket that had been laid across the middle of the War Table. He reached out for his wine glass, and took a swig. 

“You’ve rooted me out. I was thinking about your little tale last night, about how having sex on the first night in a new bed was good luck.” Trevelyan said, his voice dropping to wickedness, as he began to maneuver around Dorian. “I thought that, even if there was just the slightest glimmer of truth in that, we ought to break in the War Table. We’ll certainly need all the luck we can get.” He stopped, pressing himself against Dorian’s back, his arms sliding around Dorian’s body, cupping his chest and sliding down Dorian’s pants, while his lips pressed repeatedly into Dorian’s neck. 

Dorian tilted his glass back, savoring the final drops of his wine, before placing the empty glass on the table, and followed Trevelyan’s hands, leaning back to kiss him once more. “So you want to throw me on the War Table and conquer me?”

“Like I could ever conquer you,” Trevelyan purred into Dorian’s neck, his tongue flicking against the tender flesh, gently biting his way around Dorian’s throat. “I think I’ve developed a much more diplomatic hand,” he said, as he gently squeezed at Dorian’s cock, which had swollen considerably at Trevelyan’s touch. “Consider these… peaceful negotiations.” He said, pleased with his description.

“Oh really? And what are we negotiating over?” Dorian asked, turning to meet Trevelyan’s face. Trevelyan’s hands slid down the back of Dorian’s pants.

“Well, let’s see.” Trevelyan said, his eyes rolling upwards. “I would very much like to have you naked, sprawled across the table, my dick inside of you, while you spout off a bunch of those gibberish Tevinter curse words.” Trevelyan said. His finger clamped down over Dorian’s hole, and Dorian moaned lowly at the sensation.

Dorian pushed him away quickly with a Mind Blast, which sent him sliding back several feet. Trevelyan looked at him, stunned by the sudden turn. Dorian waved his hands, as his clothes undid themselves. He stepped out of his boots, and continued the motion, as his garments began peeling themselves from his body. He crawled up onto the War Table, purposely giving Trevelyan a view of his ample backside, before rolling onto his back, his legs spread apart, dangling lazily off the edge. 

“I find myself amenable to your terms.” Dorian called. Trevelyan began to walk his way to the table, Dorian reached out a hand, and watched as the spell ripped away Trevelyan’s clothing, unlacing his boots and unbuttoning his pants, pulling them down around him. Trevelyan continued his march forward, pushing his arms back to allow the spell to take his shirt from his body. 

“I’m surprised. I thought you’d drive a much harder bargain.” 

“You’re an excellent negotiator.” Dorian said sarcastically, as Trevelyan’s hands climbed up his body, pushing him back and climbing in between his legs, sliding his thighs under Dorian’s and pressing himself against Dorian’s hole.

“What can I say? I’m determined to get what I want.” Trevelyan said, his hips gently rocking forward, pressing into Dorian, as he leaned down.

“You’re lucky, you know, that this arrangement is mutually beneficial.” Trevelyan slid his arm underneath Dorian’s lower back, and sighed heavily. His eyes wandered up Dorian’s body slowly. He finally caught Dorian’s eyes, his face stern, yet kind. 

“Believe me, I know.”

Dorian smiled, as the warmth of Trevelyan surrounded him, their lips meeting again, a calm intensity burning between the pair. Dorian clutched on to Trevelyan’s back, his legs wrapped around Trevelyan’s waist, like that night in Haven, but this was different. Trevelyan’s hands gripped at him, his fingers working gently into Dorian’s flesh, as they dragged slowly across the entirety of Dorian’s body. Trevelyan was eager, his hips moving forward to tease Dorian with the tip of his cock, but there was a restraint, a control to his actions, a stark contrast to the abandon of the night prior.

Dorian shifted, his hand wrapping around the base of Trevelyan’s cock, and Trevelyan pulled back from the kiss, and pried Dorian’s hand away from himself. Dorian looked up at him, nonplussed. 

“Is there something wrong?” Dorian asked. Trevelyan looked down at him, his eyes warm and soft.

“I was enjoying the kissing.”

 _Maker._ “Your dick is pressed against me. It’s practically torture.”

“Sorry, that wasn’t intentional.” He moved his hips back, and Dorian practically leapt to stop him.

“I was just about to tell you to grab the oil.” He felt the tip push against him. 

“I wanted to take my time. Appreciate my good fortune.” He said, his lips moving down to greet Dorian. Dorian kissed him back, and reached his arm out. He wiggled his fingertips at the heap of clothing on the floor. They rustled slightly, before the vial shot through the air into his waiting palm. He placed it down next to him. Trevelyan sighed, his lips still attached to Dorian’s. “Are you that impatient?”

“There are worse things I could be in this moment. Disengaged. Unwilling. Fiona.” 

“Maker, why?” Trevelyan said in disgust. Dorian laughed, and Trevelyan soon joined him. “Are you trying to make me soft? You know how many times I’ve had to consciously stop myself from rolling my eyes at that woman _in this very room_?” 

“No, no, let’s move on.” Dorian said, lifting himself to kiss Trevelyan, and reaching down between his legs once more. Trevelyan didn’t stop him.

Dorian relished the feel of Trevelyan in his hand, as he guided him towards his hole, which puckered readily at the sensation. He burned with need, and Trevelyan seemed completely content to let him stew in his desire. Dorian would try to intensify their kiss, but Trevelyan maintained his pace, slow and steady and purposeful. Dorian roiled underneath him. He squeezed Trevelyan’s cock harder, sliding his hand up and down, determined to elicit some sort of response from him. Trevelyan finally loosed a low moan. 

“You’re trying to rile me up.”

“Is it working?” Dorian asked. Trevelyan reached down, rubbing his fingers against himself, and pulled them back up. Webs of sticky sweetness coated his fingers, which he lowered towards Dorian’s face. 

“You tell me.” Dorian’s head bobbed up, and he took Trevelyan’s fingers in his mouth, savoring the taste of Trevelyan’s excitement. “Fine,” Trevelyan said breathily. “You win.” He rolled off of Dorian, and turned his body, planting his head in between Dorian’s thighs. Trevelyan grabbed Dorian’s legs, and pulled his ass close. His tongue flicked out against Dorian’s hole. Dorian moaned in response.

Suddenly, he yanked Dorian, who righted himself, seated on Trevelyan’s face. Trevelyan’s arms locked around Dorian’s thighs, pulling him down onto his lips. Dorian gazed over his shoulder at Trevelyan, whose face was partially obscured by his cheeks. His eyes were narrowed as Dorian felt Trevelyan’s tongue dart inside of him. He gasped loudly, and fell forward. Trevelyan’s cock lied against his stomach, trailing the clear fluid across his chiseled stomach. 

Dorian was eager to take Trevelyan, but paused for a moment. He grabbed at Gabriel’s legs, pulling them back, and pulled his head down, brushing his mustache along Gabriel’s taint, before sliding his own tongue over Trevelyan’s ass. 

_Mhmmm._ Dorian savored the taste. Trevelyan murmured in the distance, his hips rolling in pleasure. Dorian felt Trevelyan’s teeth sink into his ass.

“Ah!” Dorian yelped. He looked back to see Trevelyan, eyes burning with fire. 

“That seemed to grab your attention.” 

Dorian bowed his head back down. He felt Trevelyan grab at his cock, and take him entirely into his mouth. He suppressed his urge to bury himself into Trevelyan’s throat, and ducked his head back down, eagerly licking Trevelyan’s hole, sliding his tongue ever so gently inside. Trevelyan pulled back, and ran his tongue along Dorian’s length, over his balls, and back to his hole.

They laid like this for what felt like hours. Dorian taking Trevelyan, who thrust himself with abandon into Dorian’s mouth, Trevelyan sucking at Dorian’s balls, Dorian rubbing his mustache against Trevelyan’s hole and listening to him moan violently in response, Trevelyan’s tongue pushing angrily against Dorian’s taut opening. Trevelyan’s teeth seemed determined to mark as much of Dorian’s thighs and ass as possible. Dorian bit down on Trevelyan’s cheek, and he heard Trevelyan’s voice croak from behind him.

“Harder.”

He was happy to oblige. Trevelyan shouted in response, a guttural scream of pleasure mixed with pain. Trevelyan readily sunk a finger into Dorian, who took it greedily.

“Another.” Trevelyan obeyed. His lips kissed along Dorian’s thighs, licking hungrily at Dorian’s throbbing cock, as his fingers pressed down against Dorian’s spot. Dorian’s arms shook violently underneath him, as he panted against the pressure. Trevelyan pushed down again, harder, and began a vicious, unrelenting assault. Dorian melted under the sensation, his face buried in Trevelyan’s lap, his lips kissing Trevelyan’s cock. It was all he could muster. 

Trevelyan pushed Dorian’s legs off of him, and reached his arm out. The vial flew to him. 

“Are you ready?” Trevelyan asked. Dorian moved himself over, settling on his hands and knees, arching his lower back, giving Trevelyan the perfect view. “On your back,” Trevelyan barked. Dorian rolled his head over his shoulder.

“Why?” 

“Because I’ve been away from your lips long enough.” He said. His voice seemed sad, but Dorian was unconcerned. 

“No.” Dorian said, moving his hips slightly. “Like this.” 

“You have been awfully difficult this evening.” Trevelyan said, any trace of disappointment in his voice gone, replaced with frustration.

“You said yourself, _you could never conquer me_.” Dorian said. He felt the cool trickle of oil against his backside. Trevelyan’s fingers glided along, and dug themselves into Dorian. He leaned over, his breath hot against Dorian’s neck, as he pressed down, and Dorian winced, his hips writhing under Trevelyan’s command.

“Is that a challenge, Dorian?” Trevelyan said. His voice was frigid darkness, creeping into Dorian’s mind, fighting against the warmth that spread through Dorian’s body. Trevelyan’s fingers tapped furiously inside of Dorian. Dorian gasped in ecstasy. 

“And if it was?” Dorian asked breathily, his reactions betraying his own words. _You are putty in his hands, Pavus._ Trevelyan’s fingers slipped quickly out from inside him, relief flooding him as tried desperately to catch his breath, but it seemed that reprieve would not last. He felt Trevelyan’s cock ease up against his hole. Trevelyan’s lips pressed up against his ear.

“I will have you _begging_ before the night is through.” He growled, through gritted teeth. Dorian felt him begin to slide in, and his hands knotted themselves in the blanket below him. Trevelyan responded, placing his hands on top of Dorian’s, pushing in further and further. _Maker_ , Dorian thought, as his senses exploded. He’d almost forgotten how Trevelyan felt, how he had taken Dorian that night in Haven, the exquisite pleasure of Trevelyan’s cock filling him to the brim and the subsequent eruption he’d drawn out of Dorian. Trevelyan dipped further, and Dorian’s chest fell to the table below him as he moaned loudly, his face dug into the blanket. Trevelyan pushed in, his hips finally meeting Dorian’s ass, and Dorian reeled, his head jerking back as he shouted something unintelligible, even to himself. 

Trevelyan bent over his collapsed body, and his lips brushed against the corner of Dorian’s mouth. 

“Is this what you wanted?” Trevelyan’s voice was all menace. Dorian rolled his eye up at the face above him, the lips drawn into a tight line. He could hardly muster a sound. He pushed his hips back against Trevelyan, who laughed darkly, and pulled himself slowly out of Dorian, before making his way back. Dorian shouted again, his body twisting in the exquisite agony of Trevelyan’s pace. _You brought this on yourself, Pavus. You wanted to play games, and you are going to lose._

Dorian looked up at Trevelyan, his eyelids heavy, straining to get the words to his mouth.

“ _Fuck me_.” He commanded defiantly. _And what a loss it will be._

Trevelyan smiled wickedly down at him. His hands slid back, but not before Dorian felt the cold wrap around his wrists. Trevelyan had frozen his hands to the table in front of him, huge chunks of ice cuffing his wrists. Trevelyan picked himself up, placing his hands on Dorian’s waist, his thumbs resting comfortably in the dimples above his ass. He slid out, and then back into Dorian, faster this time, and Dorian stifled the moan, his teeth digging into his bottom lip furiously. Trevelyan began his steady ascent, his rhythm growing with each thrust, as he drove Dorian mad with pleasure. Dorian had surrendered the arch in his back, instead focus on keeping his knees firmly planted on the table, when they threatened to slide out from underneath him. Trevelyan slipped into him, angling himself lower, and Dorian hollered with each thrust. 

He could feel his cock slapping into his stomach, hard as a rock, weeping clear, sticky fluid against his stomach, ropes of it dangling in between his legs. Kaffas! And there it went, every Tevinter curse he’d ever learned, streaming out his mouth in a perfect rhythm. Dorian’s eyes were shut tight as everything enveloped him, Trevelyan’s thrusting having plateaued at an unbearable speed. He felt his cock twitch violently underneath him, and Trevelyan’s hand sliding down his length, his finger teasing the tip. 

“You’re enjoying this,” Trevelyan muttered, his hand stroking Dorian’s cock. Dorian was unable to provide words, instead bucking his hips back into Trevelyan and thrusting his cock further into Trevelyan’s hand. As soon as Trevelyan realized what he was doing, he pulled his hand away.

“Nice try.” He said, before pushing Dorian’s hips down to table. He leaned over Dorian, and pushed himself deep inside of him. Dorian’s face twisted violently as Trevelyan slammed into his spot, his hips jerking forward against the table, his cock throbbing violently. He wailed with what little sound his half-filled lungs could emit. Trevelyan recommitted himself to his early pace, as he buried himself further and further into Dorian, each thrust driving Dorian closer and closer to the edge. Dorian’s arms struggled against their frozen cuffs, but he couldn’t move them far. 

“You want me to let your hands free?” He heard Trevelyan’s voice behind his head, as another thrust landed deep inside of him and he loosed a moan. He could feel the sweat beading on his back. He nodded, his eyes wandering up to Trevelyan. 

“All you have to do is ask.” Trevelyan said, his voice wicked with delight. Dorian steeled himself, as another thrust came, and another, and his body shook violently with delight. He wanted nothing more than to reach down in between his legs and loose the orgasm that was building up inside of him, but he was too proud to lose this little game. 

“No.” Dorian whispered, as another thrust sent a wave of pleasure crashing through his body. He felt his pulse in his fingertips. He closed his eyes again, but all he could see was the angry patterns that formed against the backs of his eyelids from shutting his eyes so tightly. 

Trevelyan slid out of Dorian, the sudden emptiness a shock. Dorian’s hips rocked in a violent spasm, the cool air filling the gap where Trevelyan’s body used to be. _Kaffas._ Dorian was relieved, for a moment, until he realized that he hadn’t finished, and all of that fire was still pent up inside of him. _Kaffas!_

“I could just leave you here, you know. _Torture you._ ” Trevelyan said, his dark tone undercut by its breathiness.

“Monster.” Dorian huffed, his breath ragged and heaving. He wanted nothing more than Trevelyan to drive himself back inside of his hole, but the words wouldn’t come to his lips. _You cannot lose._

“But I haven’t finished myself.” Dorian felt Trevelyan’s hands on his hips, and he was suddenly being turned over. He felt his wrists being freed from their icy shackles, if only for an instant, before being pulled together like magnets and frozen again, against each other. 

Dorian lay there, on his back, gasping for breath, and pulled his hands over his head. He looked up at Trevelyan, the candles casting him in glowing gold, his muscles rippling in the light, accentuated by the sheen of sweat that coated him. His chest rose and fell heavily. Dorian thought, for a moment, he might be able to win this little bout, before Trevelyan wrapped his arms around Dorian’s legs, dragging the Tevinter towards him with his freakish Marcher strength. 

Trevelyan grabbed his cock with one hand, and Dorian’s with the other. He slid himself inside Dorian, who howled in delight, and began to stroke Dorian’s cock in tempo with his thrusts. 

“Are you ready to surrender?” Trevelyan asked.

“Never.” Dorian shuddered as Trevelyan lurched into him. He gasped as his back arched in response. _Kaffas._ Trevelyan’s hand fell away from his cock. _Kaffas!_

Trevelyan leaned forward, his hands sliding up Dorian’s sides as he sunk deeper, deeper, into Dorian, and Dorian’s head twisted back. Trevelyan pulled Dorian’s chin down as he gasped, and kissed him gently on the lips. 

“You know,” Trevelyan started, “all I wanted was a nice, calm night.” He thrust again, and Dorian reeled. His eyes were unable to focus on the face above him. He stared blankly at the ceiling. “Just a quiet night with you. We haven’t really had one of those.” Trevelyan looked down at Dorian. His eyes held some emotion that Dorian was too delirious to identify. Another thrust. _Kaffas._ His hands reached around Dorian’s face, and he lowered his head down to kiss Dorian on the lips. Dorian’s mouth responded mechanically, but he was hardly aware of what he was doing. Another thrust. He moaned out of the corner of his otherwise occupied mouth.

Trevelyan’s mouth began to work frantically against Dorian’s lips, and the thrusts began to come quickly, deep inside of Dorian. His arms flung forward, and rested over Trevelyan’s shoulders, his hands still bound together in ice, while the slickness of their bodies pushed against each other. Dorian kissed Trevelyan fiercely, his teeth gnashing out at Trevelyan’s lips, as Trevelyan moaned lowly in response. Dorian felt the fire building inside of him, but the flames would only burn so far. He was standing at the precipice, looking over the edge, but he couldn’t leap. His hips bucked furiously against Trevelyan’s thrusts, desperately attempting to bring himself to orgasm, but he couldn’t. He needed his hands, which were currently shackled behind Trevelyan. Freeing himself would be admitting defeat, and even in his current state, he was too stubborn to quit. _Not just yet._

Dorian groaned. Trevelyan pulled his lips away from Dorian, his eyes cast down, as Dorian roiled violently underneath him. 

“Are you close?” Trevelyan asked. Dorian whimpered in response. “But you need a hand.” Dorian’s eyes looked at Trevelyan desperately, pleading. Trevelyan smiled down at him, so kind and peacefully, as he continued his pace. Dorian couldn’t help the gasps that escaped his lips. “You know the magic words.”

Dorian stared up at him, his face calm and serene as he continued to pound away, the soft smacking sound of his hips meeting Dorian’s ass echoing against the chambers of the walls. Dorian shouted in frustration. His limbs shook violently against Trevelyan, his legs squeezing down on Trevelyan’s waist in fury. Trevelyan remained above him, glowing down, unrelenting. Dorian heaved himself up to Trevelyan’s lips, and Trevelyan bowed down to greet him. 

“Please.” Dorian mumbled out the corner of his mouth. Trevelyan picked his head up.

“What?” Trevelyan asked.

“I beg you!” Dorian shouted. 

Trevelyan’s lips ducked back, greedily taking Dorian’s in their thrall, and he pushed Dorian’s arms over his head, his hand grasping at the frozen shackle and shattering it with a thought. Dorian moaned in delight at finally being free, his hands eagerly reaching down towards his cock, but Trevelyan beat him there. His hand moved quickly along the length, stroking in rhythm with his thrusts like he had before, his grip tight on Dorian. 

“You’ve suffered enough. Let me take care of you.” Trevelyan murmured between kisses. Dorian felt the flames fanning out within him. Trevelyan continued, building the pressure. Dorian’s hands wrapped back around Trevelyan’s shoulders. He felt his toes curl, as his fingernails dug into Trevelyan’s back. He pulled back from Trevelyan’s mouth to moan loudly, and Trevelyan’s head dug into Dorian’s neck, his lips unable to stop their ferocious attack. He heard the guttural sounds rising in Trevelyan, as his thrusts became more erratic. Trevelyan’s hand clamped down on Dorian, desperately pumping his cock, _Kaffas_ , Dorian was so close, _KAFFAS_. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he’d swore he’d gone blind. 

He felt it rip through him, his body contorting violently against the overwhelming sensation that continued to pulsate through him. He felt the hot, sticky ropes shoot from deep inside, spurting out, coating himself and Trevelyan. His moaned loudly, his voice breaking with the effort of his breathing, as he clawed furiously at Trevelyan, his hands burning from the intensity, who screamed in his ear next to him as he found his own orgasm. Dorian felt the final thrusts of Trevelyan’s cock digging into him, his body still thirsting for more. Dorian’s chest heaved into Trevelyan, who dropped on top of Dorian, his breath in Dorian’s ear. 

Dorian hadn’t recalled the last time that he’d come so hard, if he ever had before. 

Dorian couldn’t move. His body was frozen in the shape of his orgasm, twisted up around Trevelyan, and Trevelyan seemed none to eager to remove himself from Dorian’s grasp. They lay there, pressed against one another, panting heavily, unable to do much more than breathe. Dorian’s eyes blinked open, staring straight up at the ceiling, Trevelan’s shoulders and neck heaving in the periphery of his vision. He turned his head ever so slightly to the side, and saw Trevelyan, face pressed against the blanket, his hair in stunning disarray. Trevelyan’s eye rolled up lazily.

“Told you. About the begging,” he exhaled. Dorian sighed, and rolled his eyes.

“That you did. You win this round.” Dorian admitted. _Ass._

“Quite a loss,” Trevelyan smarted. Neither of them had quite been able to catch their respective breath. 

“For my ego, maybe.” Dorian smiled. _Not a loss at all, really._ Trevelyan eased his head closer to Dorian, and planted kisses on his temple.

“You are incredible, Dorian Pavus.” Trevelyan murmured. Dorian felt the warmth bloom in his chest. Would one admission of appreciation ruin his carefully crafted façade?

“As are you.” He felt Trevelyan’s lips tighten into a smile as he continued his soft kisses. Dorian’s hands had begun to fall asleep, and he pulled them away from Trevelyan’s shoulders. Trevelyan suddenly went rigid, and shouted, a raspy scream emanating from his throat. He jerked back violently, back on to his knees.

“What? What’s going on?” Dorian shouted. Trevelyan winced and whimpered, twisting around, his hands reaching to his back. Dorian gazed up, and gasped at the sight.

The shape of his hands, red and burned into Trevelyan’s back. _Maker._

“What the _fuck?!_ ” Trevelyan gasped. 

“Stop! Stop!” Dorian yelled. “Calm down. Let me see.” Trevelyan pulled himself off of Dorian, his cock sliding out of Dorian’s hole, and Dorian felt the dull, aching soreness that seemed like a foregone result of sex with Trevelyan. It wasn’t unwelcome, just another reminder that he wanted, and had been well-loved. 

Trevelyan turned his back to Dorian, still whimpering lightly, and Dorian moved close to assess the damage. Sure enough, he could make out the outline his fingers, blistered into Trevelyan’s raw skin. _Maker, Pavus._ He hadn’t even realized he’d done anything. He felt the heat in his palms, but nothing like this had ever happened before. He’d always been in control of his power. 

_Trevelyan wrested control from you._ Dorian froze at the realization. He’d fallen, but he hadn’t realized how hard, or how fast, until he looked down at Trevelyan’s burns. He’d never lost control of his magic. Even his first spell was intentional, as he pulled a book off the top shelf of his father’s study with nothing but his willpower. _What has he done to you?_ His mind was still hazy from the overwhelming intensity of his orgasm, but the scorched skin before him was sobering. 

“What happened?” Trevelyan asked, his teeth gritted. 

Dorian snapped from his reverie. “I… I’m afraid that it was my doing. I apologize, profusely.” Dorian’s head was still reeling. He may have scorched Trevelyan’s skin, but Trevelyan had done something far worse to Dorian. 

“What exactly did you do?” 

“I seem to have branded you with my hands.” Dorian muttered, his voice distant and low.

“That desperate to leave you mark?” Trevelyan asked. Dorian was taken aback at the jovial response. His lips parted to respond but his voice was lost. “You don’t have to worry. My focus has been relatively singular.” He smiled warmly at Dorian, even though the pain lingered in his eyes. 

The bitter realization that he’d been stripped of his control was replaced with the increasingly powerful sensation to which he’d become acclimated. He smiled like some sort of lunatic at Trevelyan, before collecting the fragments of his better senses off the floor and generating a response.

“’Relatively’ sounds very encouraging.” Dorian raised his hand, which glowed gently against Trevelyan’s back, delicately mending his skin. Trevelyan winced slightly, but it didn’t seem to stifle his good spirits.

“Oh, you know. I would be lying if I said no one else had caught my eye. He’s a Tevinter, just like you! He’s tall, dark, and has red lyrium growing out of his face.” 

Dorian rolled his eyes. “He’s hardly _just like me_. I’m _relatively singular_.” Trevelyan laughed. “I’m afraid that this will require more than a healing spell if you don't want it to scar. I have some poultice in my room that will help to patch this up overnight. I take it your quarters remain incomplete.” Trevelyan nodded. “Alright then. Shall we retire to my chambers for the evening?”

They both stood up, Trevelyan’s face twisting any time he stretched the skin of his upper back, and began to put their clothes back on. Trevelyan carefully pulled his shirt over his shoulders, and moaned as the fabric settled against his skin. Dorian quickly gathered the blanket, and the empty bottle and glasses.

“Let me help you.” Trevelyan asked, attempting to grab at the blanket in Dorian’s arm. 

“I’ve got it.” Dorian said. Trevelyan reached for his waist and pulled him in for a quick kiss. “Well then, shall we be going?”

Trevelyan smiled, and reached his hand up carefully to douse the candles. They departed, slipping out the door of the War Room, finding their way back to the Main Hall – Trevelyan politely nodding at the guard, who stood dutifully in Josephine’s office, apparently not having moved an inch – and quickly making their way upstairs to Dorian’s room. 

Dorian ushered Trevelyan in, tossing the blanket, bottle, and glasses onto his otherwise empty desk. “Here, let me.” Dorian said, stepping to Trevelyan’s back. He pulled gently at Trevelyan’s jacket, and heard him suck his breath through his teeth. The burns looked much less angry, but they would still need to be bandaged properly. Dorian carefully placed Trevelyan’s shirt on the back of the chair at his desk. “Sit,” he commanded, and Trevelyan calmly took his place at the edge of the bed, hands placed neatly on his thighs. Dorian waved a hand over his back, and felt the cooling air waft over Trevelyan’s burns. Trevelyan sighed heavily.

“That feels incredible.” His shoulders slumped slightly, relaxing with the chill. Dorian rifled through his bag, and found the small glass jar and some shredded linens to wrap around the wound. He returned to Trevelyan’s side.

“This will feel comparatively less pleasant, but I promise, it’s for the best.” Dorian carefully uncorked the wide lid from the glass jar, and dipped his fingers into the solution, its potent odor quickly filling the air. He carefully raised a hand to Trevelyan’s back, and began to gently dab the thick balm onto the wounds, careful to use the lightest of touches, smearing generous amounts of the concoction into Trevelyan’s skin. Trevelyan remained silent, his back perfectly still. 

“It tingles.” Trevelyan muttered, as Dorian began work on the second burn. 

“It ought to. There’s mint and aloe in the mixture. They provide next to no healing benefits, but they create a wonderful cooling sensation.” Dorian blew delicately on the wound he’d already treated, and Trevelyan responded with a light ‘aaaah.’

Dorian finished his work, and wiped his fingers clean, before carefully wrapping the bandages over Trevelyan’s shoulders. Luckily, Trevelyan was a rather stationary sleeper, so he wouldn’t have to bother with intricate wrappings. 

Trevelyan rolled his shoulders slightly, and turned his head up to Dorian. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me; it’s the least I could do.”

“Definitely one of the more interesting love marks I’ve been left with.” Trevelyan smiled. 

“Alright now. To bed with you.” Dorian stood up, peeling his clothing off his body. Trevelyan dedicated himself to his pants and boots, and soon, they were tucked under the covers together. Trevelyan lay on his back, in spite of Dorian’s protestations, and pulled Dorian against him, in the nook that Dorian had so longed to return to after their night in Haven.

“You know, I’m almost happy you burnt me to a crisp.” Trevelyan said lazily, his voice strumming low, his head tilted back against his pillow.

“Interesting response. Why is that?” Dorian asked, the corner of his lips dragging across Trevelyan’s chest.

“You must have been enjoying yourself. You wouldn’t have let go like that otherwise.” 

_Damned Trevelyan and his insights._

“I’ll admit, I was outside myself for a moment. Fear not. I’ve returned to my posturing.” 

“Posturing or not, you’re still curled up next to me right now. I’ll take what I can get.” Trevelyan said.

“Mmmph.” Dorian mumbled. Trevelyan bowed his head down to kiss Dorian on the head, and fell back on to his pillow.

They drifted away into the night. Dorian’s mind flew through a million thoughts in those final moments of consciousness.

_I lost control. In Trevelyan’s arms, though. I hurt him. It wasn’t intentional. I lost control. He’ll take what he can get. I suppose I will, too. I lost control. You were enjoying yourself. I lost control._

_I’m falling._

Dorian’s eyes fluttered open, straining against the bright sky. He stood on the sandy white beach again, in the turquoise surf, which pooled around his ankles. He looked up at the sky, which was the strangest shade of grey, as though covered by the thinnest of clouds. His face tilted back down, and suddenly Trevelyan was pressed against him, their lips sealed together in a kiss. Everything mingled together, the warm breeze against his exposed back, the sea salt smell filling his nostrils, the taste of Trevelyan’s tongue, the perfectly calming sound of waves rolling gently against the shoreline. 

He hadn’t been here in so long, he thought, before he felt Trevelyan’s hands slide across his back, and surrendered, gripping Trevelyan just as tightly. The warm water rose up around their waists. Dorian began to feel faint, his knees buckling, his hands slipping from Trevelyan ever so slightly. Trevelyan pulled back and stared past Dorian’s eyes, into whatever might lie beyond them.

“I’m here.” Trevelyan said. So Dorian fell.

___

It had been a month since that night, and Dorian had fallen, indeed. Trevelyan’s bed had arrived a few days later, and he’d drawn the velvet curtains around them that first night and they’d lost themselves in each other for hours, their entire world a cascade of blood red and flesh pink. Trevelyan had coaxed orgasm after orgasm out of Dorian, and Dorian had returned the favor in kind, watching Trevelyan writhe underneath him as he came undone in their vermillion bubble. 

Dorian had tried to surrender – his limbs fatigued, his body aching with fatigue – but Trevelyan would have none of it, planting himself deep inside of Dorian, rousing him to attention once more, and again pushing him over the edge. Dorian fell, back into Trevelyan’s waiting arms, as they wrapped themselves around Dorian and rocked him into a deep sleep. 

Many nights had come and gone, some in Trevelyan’s bed, some in his own, some spent together, and others spent alone. But it flowed along steadily, like a stream that had cut its way through the mountains, bounding along its course, rolling over the stones and branches that attempted to block its path. Dorian, for once, was content. If he asked no questions, then Trevelyan would not need to provide any answers. Trevelyan would find him at night, in his alcove or in his room, and they would steal away. They were no longer the Inquisitor and the Tevinter, but Gabriel and Dorian, all the trappings that pinned them down in their waking hours magically dispelled by the candlelight. 

As long as he didn’t think too long about the finer details of their arrangement, or the white sand beach that he only seemed to visit when wrapped in Trevelyan’s arms – and even then, his visits to that exotic locale were rare – he was perfectly happy to continue their dance. Trevelyan seemed pleased, as well, and after Dorian’s experience crossing the Waking Sea, he knew that rocking the boat only lead to seasickness. The brook babbled along, and filled Dorian’s mind with its quiet song, the comfort of knowing that even if Trevelyan were unable to visit him on any given day, they would soon wind themselves around each other and fall back, punch drunk, until morning gave them cause to part. _Until later_ , Trevelyan would say, and Dorian would reach out, catching the promise in his hand, and hold it close to his heart. 

It had been one of those mornings. Trevelyan had gotten out of bed, attempting to get a head start on the day, but Dorian lied, tangled up in the sheets, determined to coax Trevelyan back. He unraveled himself, spread out over the covers, his cock still swollen with sleep, and he called to Gabriel.

“Come back to bed.”

“I wish I could.”

“You can, and you know it.”

“Cullen will be annoyed.”

“The Commander can wait. I’m only asking for five minutes of your attention.”

“You’re incorrigible, and you know it won’t be five minutes.”

Dorian looked down the bed. Trevelyan stood at the foot, his cock thick with excitement, his hand gently stroking himself. 

“Come.” Dorian beckoned. Trevelyan crawled onto the bed, pushing Dorian’s legs back with his own, as he greeted his lips with a kiss.

“I intend to.”

The memory floated around Dorian’s mind, and he tried desperately to wave it away, seated in his beautiful, plush armchair in his alcove. It had arrived the same day as Trevelyan’s bed, the Inquisition’s seal carved into the top of the chair, the velvet cushions stuffed generously, so that Dorian sank into the chair every time he sat down. He’d found it by surprise that day, with a folded note that rested innocuously on its arm. 

_You deserve a seat as comfortable as your own. I’m sure you’ll let me know how displeased you are with my design choices. I’ll have you know, all I asked for was, ‘as comfortable as you can make it.’ I’m sure it will be the most beautiful chair in Skyhold, as long as you are seated in it._

_\- G_

Dorian would never admit it, but he’d tucked the note away immediately in his desk for safekeeping. He’d read it again, once or twice, just to feel the rush of heat in his face. He’d immediately chastised himself after, of course – he was no longer a lovesick child, and this behavior was completely untenable – but his mind fought him less and less as the days wore on, and Trevelyan was still eager – now, more than ever – to strip Dorian down to less than nothing and reduce the both of them to quivering puddles of ejaculate and obscenities. 

The whispers and the gossip had only flared up. There were a million and one things to talk about in Skyhold, but it seemed that whom the Inquisitor was bedding was of the utmost importance. Dorian had never shied away from causing a scene, but the way that he’d been gawked at would be completely unbearable if it weren’t for the fact that Gabriel was…

Wonderful? Kind? Attentive? Generous? 

_You’re besotted, Pavus. You’ve become so drunk off Gabriel that you’re likely to vomit any moment now._

Dorian looked down at the book in his hands. _Shartan - A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing?_

_Kaffas. More bloody Chantry propaganda._

He’d almost finished sorting through the contents of the library in the basement, having squirrelled away several gems for his personal collection, hidden behind his plush chair, but this specific tome must have slipped into his pile accidentally. He rubbed the back of his neck. The light of day streamed through his small window, and he turned to look out at the clear skies. Spring would arrive shortly. He wondered if that meant he might be able to forego wearing a cloak when he stepped out of the castle.

“Excuse me, Master Pavus?” One of Leliana’s scouts greeted him. He turned back to the entrance to his alcove. The small elf stood, head shrouded in the uniform green hood, with several individuals tucked behind her, all in tattered, ragged robes. He gasped, for a moment, when the realization hit him. _Slaves. From Tevinter._

He pulled himself together quickly enough. “How may I help you?” He sincerely hoped the slight quaver in his voice didn’t seem suspicious. He put the book down, and walked toward the scout. He noticed the boxes, which were being carted up the stairs by several members of the Inquisition. The pieces began to fall together. _Maker, no._

The scout proffered a letter. Dorian looked down, the yellow parchment stamped shut by a dark red wax seal. _The Alexius Family Crest._

“Thank you,” Dorian offered listlessly, as he took the letter, opening it with a shaky hand. He knew what would lie beyond, the tragedy that the letters on the paper would spell out, but he had to read it 

_Master Pavus … It is with deepest sympathy … Felix, of House Alexius … dead, this Pluitanis, 9:42 … As the executor of his last will and testament … generous gift of his family’s library … one silverite statue of a dragon … six former slaves, who have been released from their bondage to House Alexius… sent to Master Pavus’ whereabouts, per Master Felix’s request._

Dorian gazed up. _Felix had freed them all._

“Is everything alright, Master Pavus?” the scout asked. Dorian sighed. 

“A dear, good friend of mine has passed away, I’m afraid.” Dorian said, staring back down at the letter in his hands, his voice uncharacteristically severe. “Too good, in fact,” he added quietly.

“My condolences, sir.” The scout bowed. 

“Thank you.” He turned to the small group. There were six, four women and two men. One man and woman were human, the rest were elves. “Were you informed before you left Tevinter?”

They stared at him blankly. One elf stepped forward. He recognized her from his time living at Alexius’ estate. Sylenna. 

“We had been, Master Pavus.” She bowed deeply. He wondered how much of their newfound freedom they’d actually absorbed. “Our last task to perform was to help insure that Master Alexius’ books made it here, to Skyhold, to you, Master Pavus.”

Dorian stood, dumbfounded. Here it was. The library he’d joked about with Felix on the docks of Redcliffe. The poor bastard had actually followed through. Even on his deathbed, Felix was too good for words. _Your one and only friend, gone. Maker._ He reined in his emotions, and closed his eyes for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“You are now free, then." Dorian paused, unfamiliar with this particular ritual. "I’m not quite sure what happens now. Where will you go?” Dorian asked.

“To be honest, Master Pavus, we had hoped we might take refuge here,” Sylenna said, bowing again, her voice meek and plaintive. “None among us has a family to return to in Tevinter, nor do we have any worldly possessions. If we did return, we would only be captured and sold again, Master Pavus.”

Dorian found himself at a loss for words, for the umpteenth time this day. He looked over to the scout, who shrugged her shoulders.

He looked up and saw Trevelyan walking toward the alcove. Gabriel gazed over the boxes, and then over the slaves. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he turned to look at Dorian, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

“I heard you’d received a shipment. I hope it wasn’t of people.”

“Funny thing, that. It was. Alexius’ former slaves. They are free now, and are seeking asylum.” Dorian said, his tone a failed attempt at airy conversation. 

“Former? So Felix freed them?” Trevelyan looked at Dorian, his face still twisted in confusion, until it broke over him. He reached his arms out and wrapped Dorian in a tight embrace. “Oh, Dorian. I am so sorry.” He whispered in his ear. Dorian felt the pinpricks in the corners of his eyes and delicately pushed Trevelyan back. 

“It’s quite alright. He was ill, and thus on borrowed time anyhow.” Dorian pushed the sadness down. “The letter mentions you, actually. He went to the Magisterium. Stood on the Senate floor and told them of you. A glowing testimonial, I’m informed. No news on the reaction, but everyone back home is talking. Felix always was as good as his word.” 

Trevelyan smiled, his hands still holding Dorian’s arms. “Glowing. Because of the Anchor.”

_Ass!_

He turned away from Dorian, to the men and women. “My name is Gabriel Trevelyan, and the Inquisition intends to honor the word of our fallen ally, Felix Alexius. We will take you in, and we will provide you with food, shelter, and clothing. We expect recruits to work, but you will be paid a fair wage for your labor.”

They looked at him in shock. The idea that they would be clothed and fed – _and paid_ – without so much as a second thought was completely incomprehensible to the lot of them. Dorian would venture a heavy wager that none of them had even the slightest inkling of what that really meant. Likely, they’d all been born into the trade, what with the claim that they had no families. Dorian thought back, to all those nights before, when Trevelyan had said he wanted to bring peace and prosperity to all Theodosians. 

_Another small step towards his noble goal._

“I will bring you downstairs to our ambassador, Josephine Montilyet. Lady Montilyet is partially responsible for helping to organize our new recruits. She helps to determine where, exactly, you would be best suited to serve the organization. She will help you as best she can. Please, follow me. Dorian, you are welcome to join us.” Trevelyan waved a hand, and the boxes full of books floated over, into his alcove. The slaves all caught sight of the glowing green mark, and gasped. They dropped to the floor, prostrating themselves before him.

“Inquisitor! We beg your pardon for our lack of respect.” They shook violently, expecting the whip or the cane. Trevelyan kneeled, his hand outstretched to Sylenna, who looked up, her eyes watery and apologetic and afraid.

“Please, stand up. No one here is expected to bow to me. If that were the case, this one,” he thumbed toward Dorian, “would have been in the stockades ages ago.” He smiled warmly. “This is the beginning of a new life for you. I understand that it will take some getting used to, but I want you to start. Take my hand.” He moved it forward slightly. Sylenna stared at him, and raised her hand carefully to his. Dorian had found it odd – Alexius had never beaten any of his slaves – but then again, Sylenna was older, and had been owned by many Magisters prior to the Alexius clan. Trevelyan stood slowly, rising as she did, along with the rest of the free men and women.

“Come along. I’m sure you’ve had a long journey, and you must need something to eat and drink.” He made his was for the stairs that lead to the Main Hall. “Dorian?” He turned his head to glance back. Dorian had been staring intently at the boxes that now littered his alcove. He had been thinking of the late nights spent working in Alexius’ study, how many of these books he’d rifled through, how many pages bore his fingerprints. Trevelyan’s voice broke his focus. 

“I’m on my way.” Dorian called, and hurriedly followed the group. 

As they made their way to Josephine’s office, Dorian trailed the crowd, as Trevelyan made it a point to introduce himself to each and every one of the men and women in their small coterie. They all bowed their heads in reverence, and Gabriel attempted to chastise them delicately, encouraging them to break years of hard-learned habits. Their bodies had memorized all the motions, but Trevelyan was determined to help them acclimate as quickly as possible. He opened the doors to Josephine’s office and ushered them inside. Josephine was, as always, glued to her desk, her hand scratching a quill hastily across parchment paper. 

“Josephine?” Trevelyan said jovially. He was possibly the only person in Skyhold who could get away with interrupting her without fear of reprisal. _Iron fist in a velvet glove, that one._

“Inquisitor.” She greeted him, picking her head up from her paperwork. “I apologize. Are these new recruits?” She looked at their tattered robes, slightly confused. 

“I suppose.” Trevelyan said, turning back to the group. He recounted the significant details to her. The group stood silent, their poses deferential, their nervousness palpable in the air around them. 

“I see.” Josephine said. “Well, if they wish to remain, I am certain that we will be able to provide them shelter. Seeing as the late Magister was instrumental in foiling the Venatori plot in Redcliffe, the least we could do is honor his last wishes.”

“Thank you for taking care of this, Josephine. Also, if you could, I’m sure that we have some clothes to spare. Winter hasn’t ended quite yet.” He turned to them. “Are you hungry? I’ll fetch you something. There should be bread downstairs in the kitchen, correct?” 

“I believe so.” Josephine said, an eyebrow arched, unsurprised by Trevelyan’s insistence. _Always playing the hero._

“Would you stay here with Josephine for the time being?” He asked politely.

“Of course, Inquisitor.” Sylenna bowed deeply. Trevelyan stopped for a moment, his mouth opening as if to correct her, but instead choosing to smirk, dipping his head towards her in a polite nod. The whole string of motions was incredibly awkward, and in spite of the pit in his stomach, Dorian almost felt like he could laugh. _Almost._

Trevelyan began to make for the Kitchens. “Dorian, would you please come with me?” Dorian rolled his eyes, and dutifully followed him down the stairs, knowing full well what was about to come.

Trevelyan stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned to him. “Dorian, are you all right?” His concerned was plastered on his face. 

“I’m fine, I promise. You said it yourself: it’s almost a relief to know he’s not suffering any longer.” Dorian said, folding his arms across his chest.

“You know, you fuss over me all the time. Is it that unbearable that I might be concerned about your well-being, or would that be too jarring a reversal of roles?” Trevelyan asked. The question was biting, but his tone was soft and sincere. And he was right. >Again.

“He’s gone. I’ve known this day was going to come. I said my goodbyes on the docks in Redcliffe. There’s nothing I can do to change anything.” Trevelyan reached out a hand, grabbing Dorian’s arm with a gentle squeeze. 

“That doesn’t mean you can’t regret his death.”

Dorian sighed. “I know.” He swallowed, and looked at his shoes. He kicked the ground slightly, and watched as dust bloomed up from the floor. Time had passed, and the walls remained, unbroken, unbent, unwilling to budge. And yet, Gabriel stood, outside of the walls, suffering the indignity of Dorian’s refusal to open up with perfect grace. He never pushed against the walls, never attempted to tear them down, never banged his fist on the cold, unmoving stone.

He stood and he waited patiently, his hand outstretched. _I’m here for you._ As if he was sure that, at any moment, they would come down, and Dorian would let him in. But Dorian had built them so long ago, and he wasn’t quite sure what magic he’d used in the process. He wanted nothing more than to say the word, and watch them all fall down, but no word he’d tried thus far had been the right one. 

_Little steps, Dorian._ He sighed again, his eyes turning to Trevelyan’s face.

“Felix used to sneak me treats from the kitchens when I was working late in his father’s study. ‘Don’t get into trouble on my behalf,’ I’d tell him. ‘I like trouble,’ he’d say. Tevinter could use more mages like him, those who put the good of others above themselves.”

 _That wasn’t so bad_ , Dorian thought. He’d stepped forward. Now he could step back. 

Trevelyan rubbed his hand against Dorian’s shoulder. “You make it sound like he was a better person that you.”

“What a mad thing to say. Few people are better than I.” Trevelyan shot an incredulous glance at Dorian, his eyebrows askance. “Very well, a better person, clearly, but not nearly as handsome.”

Trevelyan smiled, and pulled Dorian into warm hug, Dorian’s arms still folded across his chest. He kissed Dorian on the cheek, and Dorian felt the flush reach up. 

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.” Trevelyan said warmly. “Not the handsome bit, of course. You are incredibly handsome.” He pulled himself back, his hands still pressed against Dorian’s sides. “But you’re a far better person than you’d ever admit.”

Maybe Dorian had it all wrong. Trevelyan waited outside the walls, the impenetrable fortress standing before him. But maybe, Trevelyan could see through the walls. Maybe, for him, the fortress was not stone and steel, but glass. Maybe he knew what waited inside. Maybe he thought it was something worth waiting for.

Dorian leaned forward and kissed Trevelyan on the lips. 

_Thankfully, Felix wasn’t the only decent sort kicking around Thedas._

___

 

Dorian swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat just wouldn’t disappear. 

His feet carried him down the unfamiliar stairwell that was thankfully in good repair. He would have fallen down the twisting steps otherwise. Every footfall landed with a hard thud, echoing off the walls around him. _Skyhold certainly is shit for silence._

He opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and nodded politely at the guard standing in the room.

“Master Pavus,” the guard greeted him. “The Inquisitor said that you might pay a visit, eventually.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure he’d imagined it would be under different circumstances. Where is he?”

The guard motioned for Dorian to follow her to the row of cells on the left side of the room. Alexius sat, alone in the cell, unmoving, his eyes cast down at the floor. The guard was kind enough to unlock the cell door. She stepped away, allowing Dorian to enter.

Alexius sat frozen like the stone that surrounded him. “Dorian,” he said, acknowledging his presence.

“Alexius.” Dorian said, his voice laden with sadness. The former Magister turned his head, and found Dorian’s hand reached out to him, a letter with a broken seal clutched tightly in his hand. He gazed intently at the wax, and recognized his family crest.

“No.” He whispered. His face twisted in pain, as he stared back to the floor. The tears streamed down his cheeks, his eyes overflowing with the overwhelming weight of the realization. It took everything Dorian had to not join him.

“Felix is…” Dorian’s voice cracked. He composed himself, sniffing indelicately, rolling the word around on his tongue before opening his mouth again.

“Felix is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ACK! I was getting mad at myself for not writing fast enough, and then I realized this chapter was like, 40 pages of my word doc. They just keep getting longer and longer.
> 
> And smuttier and smuttier. (disgusted noise) (Hey, maybe Cassandra would be into it. "Smutty Literature" "They're terrible, and magnificent!")
> 
> Dorian's starting to come to a bit of a moment, and things are going to come to a head soon for that one. Something kind of mean is going to happen to him next chapter. Sorry! He's getting too comfortable. He needs to get shaken up.
> 
> That sex scene was not supposed to happen like that, and then Dorian had to exert his control. IDK, it was kind of hot. I'm all for it. 
> 
> So yeah, I'm trying to bump things along a bit, but I kind of like just coasting for a bit. They've been at Skyhold, at this point, for about two and a half months. They're reestablishing themselves. Digging their roots into the ground, so to speak. 
> 
> Trevelyan's finding his rhythm as Inquisitor. Still not loving every part, but he's making things work. The pace is slowing down from those frantic few first weeks. He's got time to bed the Tevinter.
> 
> The gossip is only going to get worse before it gets better.
> 
> Also, fun shout-out to that fan theory that Solas was Shartan. I love doing little things like that. I've snuck so many of them in (Mostly call-outs to Solas) so poke through and see if you can find them. It's only a hundred thousand words or so. 
> 
> The former slaves are going to be interesting additions to the mix. I have some ideas for them. I don't want them to just exist as avatars for Dorian's personal growth, because that's icky and reductive. So maybe we'll see them do some growing instead. 
> 
> More Cullen, soon! and Specializations next time! (Hint: It's Knight Enchanter. Another Hint: VIVIENNE IS THROUGH THE MOON ABOUT IT. Final Hint: A certain elf with a crush on a certain Tevinter Mage is also planning on attending training. Wait? Other people than the Inquisitor are getting trained?)
> 
> Tune in next time.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos, as usual. You're all wonderful and I adore you so. COMMENT MORE! I will respond to EVERYTHING, ANYTHING you have to say to me. Love it? Hate it? Please, let me know. XOXO.


	17. The Mentor and the Knight Enchanter

Dorian stood silently, leaning gently against the doorframe of Alexius’ cell, watching Alexius compose himself. He could hardly begrudge his former mentor this display of emotion. In spite of everything that had happened between them – the fighting, the years without communication, the Venatori – Dorian couldn’t help but want to comfort the man whom he’d spent years learning from, whose patronage had altered the course of his life within the Imperium. 

Yet here he was, beaten down, a traitor to himself and everything he had believed in, and what did he have to show for it? A cell in a fortress on top of a mountain in a completely foreign land, and his only son, his shining star, dead and gone. Alexius was a cautionary tale, how betraying oneself only lead to misery and ruin. Granted, that wasn’t the only path to misery and ruin, but Dorian had long since left behind his self-destructive ways. He hoped.

“Thank you… for coming to tell me.” Alexius whispered, wiping at his eyes. “I know how hard this must be, for you.”

“To be honest, it all seems so petty, now, considering the circumstances.” Dorian said, his mind miles and years away, back in Alexius’ study, sharing treats with Felix once more. “Aside from that Venatori business. How could you, Alexius?”

“Dorian, I would have done anything to save Felix.” Alexius said, his voice quavering. “You cannot possibly understand what a parent would do, the lengths to which one would go, to save their child.” Dorian felt the heat on the back of his neck. _I know just how far they would go. Tevinter cults to save a child. Blood magic, to save face_.

Dorian cleared his throat, and unclenched his jaw. 

“The Elder One exploited my weakness. I only wish I could go back in time to save myself, so that I might see my son smiling once more.” 

“Short of a blood sacrifice the likes of which Tevinter hasn’t seen since Corypheus tore open the Veil a millennia ago, that is highly unlikely. The Breach has been sealed, and the amulet is no longer functional.” Dorian said. Alexius looked up at him.

“Then you still have the amulet?” 

“Nice try, and no. I’ve dismantled it, and Felix was kind enough to destroy all evidence of our research, so that none might repeat our grievous mistake.” _Lies_. The amulet was tucked away in Dorian’s room, at the moment, locked in one of the drawers of his desk. The research materials would be destroyed, once Dorian had a chance to review them, so that he might make the necessary modifications to the amulet. 

“It is for the best.” Alexius said, his voice low and sad. The past few years had been especially cruel to the former Magister, and to see all his hard work go up in flames must have been difficult to swallow.

“How have they been treating you?” Dorian asked, his eyes wandering around the cell. A small stool in the corner held several books, stacked on top of each other. 

“The Inquisition has been extraordinarily kind, in spite of my actions. They have fed me well. When I ask for an extra blanket, they provide. The Inquisitor’s mercy has allowed me to atone for my mistakes.” Alexius said. 

“I thought he said all magical research was to be conducted under guard?” Dorian said, his head nodding toward the stack of tomes in the corner.

“Those are books on subjects other than magical theory. They are kind enough to allow me to borrow books from the library. Granted, the selection leaves one wanting. It’s mostly Chantry propaganda…”

“I had the exact same thought!” Dorian interrupted. Alexius smiled.

“… but it does help to pass the time.” He smiled at Dorian, and for a moment, they could have been anywhere – a tavern in Minrathous, Alexius’ study, one of the grand parties Dorian had frequented under the nurturing wing of his former patron. This is why Dorian had been so bitter, for so long. In Alexius, he’d found an ally and a mentor, but more importantly, someone who was willing to understand. He’d lost everything that day, when it all came to a head. Alexius would hear none of Dorian’s objections any longer, and what had been a tense, recurring conversation over the past several months quickly turned into a knock-down, drag-out brawl over Alexius’ chosen course of action. _Time magic was patently absurd_ , Dorian had thought. He had been too proud to apologize, and Alexius had been too obsessed with saving Felix to see anything in his periphery, so Dorian packed his things and left without so much as a goodbye. 

Maybe, if he’d stayed, he could have salvaged something. Maybe Alexius wouldn’t have felt the need to join the Venatori, and would have been able to enjoy the last days of Felix’s life by his side, as opposed to hundreds of miles away, locked in a cell for his crimes. 

_Maker knows_ , Dorian thought. _It’s not like you can go back in time and fix it._

_Thankfully._

“How have you been, Dorian? I understand you’ve worked your way up the ladder.” Alexius said. The sadness still lumped up in his throat, but he seemed genuinely interested.

“Naturally. How could anyone resist my wit and charm?” Alexius chuckled lightly. “I am determined to aid the Inquisition in defeating Corypheus. Treve… _The Inquisitor_ has been very kind, despite of my nationality, in welcoming me into the fold.”

“So I’ve heard.” Alexius said, an undertone cutting his words. Dorian’s face burned. 

“What exactly are you getting at, Alexius?” Dorian asked, his voice dropping down to a sour note.

“The walls of this fortress may be brick and mortar, Dorian, but when it comes to gossip, they are paper-thin.” Alexius said. “You ought to know, from your time in the Imperium, that nothing can keep mouths shut short of binding and gagging them.” 

Dorian’s arms folded across his chest, and his eyebrows sunk down over his eyes. “Pray tell: what have these mouths been saying?”

“That you and the Inquisitor are involved in some sort of terribly misguided romantic affair. Their words, not mine.” Alexius paused, sizing up Dorian’s reaction, but Dorian refused to give him anything. “I do have to wonder, if all this is true: what are you hoping for, Dorian?” 

Dorian opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He’d pushed this question from his mind, because he knew that the answer would only lead to disaster. He’d tried desperately to keep everything with Gabriel light and simple, and Trevelyan seemed more than content to let things move along at that pace. Of course, that didn’t douse the fire that burned in his chest, but Dorian knew what would happen if he were to broach that topic.

_Better to have something ill-defined and fleeting, than to have nothing at all._

___

 

Dorian stood in the courtyard, outside of the stables, underneath the shade of a tree. Spring had officially arrived, and the budding leaves and green grass underneath his feet were a welcome reprieve from the hard, cold months of winter. The repairs to Skyhold had progressed significantly, with more and more recruits flocking to the Inquisition each day. Most importantly, the Tavern had finally been repaired. Of course, the tavern needed a name, and Dorian remembered the debate that had ensued in the War Room after Sera had suggested something vulgar. 

“Darling, if you’re so insistent on hanging something that profane above an entrance, you can shave that word into your privates.” Vivienne suggested, her voice unusually dark and annoyed. Sera cackled at the thought.

“That’s about the smartest thing you’ve ever said, Vivi.” Sera giggled. Vivienne gave her no reaction. 

“It’s a Tavern. Does it really need a name?” Bull asked. “Everyone’s just going to call it ‘The Tavern.’”

“Of course it needs a name!” Varric said. “You’ve got a giant fortress with a name like ‘Skyhold,’ the tavern can’t just be ‘The Tavern’!”

“The Herald needs a place to rest, a reprieve, relax when the weight wears on him.” Cole’s voice wavered dreamily across the room. Cassandra looked over at the boy, as though she’d like to run him through with her sword. 

Trevelyan looked up from the War Table, which he’d been staring at blankly. “I’m pretty sure I wasn’t thinking that.”

“Wait, that’s it!” Varric jumped in. “’The Herald’s Rest’!” He stood there, mouth opened in a wide grin.

Trevelyan pursed his lips, and nodded. “It’s the best suggestion so far.”

“That’s not a very high bar to clear.” Cullen added dryly. 

“It’s suitable, and there are no offensive implications that I can think of,” Josephine added.

“Alright then. Any objections?” Trevelyan looked around the room. “Excellent.”

The Herald’s Rest it was. 

Of course, Trevelyan did have some minor objections when the shingle was hung outside the door, depicting Andraste delivering his limp, unconscious body from the Fade. _Really?_ He’d asked, when he first caught a glimpse of it. _Is this completely necessary?_ He sighed, and quickly made his way to the bar to order two tankards of ale. For himself. 

Now, Trevelyan stood in the courtyard, along with a dozen or so other mages. The elven woman, Commander Helaine, was to train them in the way of the Knight Enchanter. Vivienne stood a few steps back from the commander, her arms folded across her chest as she watched, a pleased expression curling her mouth into the closest thing to a smile it had seen in years.

The topic of training had come up within the past few weeks. The advisors had felt that Trevelyan’s power, while impressive, needed a certain… refinement. A Circle Mage without advanced training was not sufficiently inspiring – to the troops that served below him, the nobility that supported him, or the enemies who stood against him. He had agreed willingly, but insisted upon opening training up for the masses. Leliana’s agents, for instance, ought to be elevated from lowly scouts to master Assassins and Artificers. The mages needed further training, as well – their poor performance in Haven had been noted – in order to better serve the Inquisition, for those who chose to serve on the front lines. Ser Barris had no objections, of course, but when he proposed allowing some of Cullen’s soldiers to be recruited as Templars, Fiona had become something akin to an abomination. Apparently, it had taken Trevelyan several hours to talk her off her high horse, reminding her that the mages were receiving battle training, and she couldn’t hope to single-handled stifle the Templar Order by holding hostage all the terms and agreements they had settled on in their peace talks.

He’d visited the tavern later that evening to unwind, and got rip-roaring drunk with the Bull and his Chargers. He turned up several hours later at Dorian’s door, rousing him from a deep slumber, grabbing desperately at Dorian’s ass. His breath tasted of the vile Fereldan Ale that he’d been drinking all night, but Dorian had been loath to reject him when Gabriel stripped himself naked and threw himself onto Dorian’s bed, his ankles in the air. Dorian burned through two orgasms just to get Trevelyan near his first, and he’d thought he’d die trying to finish Trevelyan off, but Trevelyan had luckily sobered up enough to come to a stunning conclusion before dragging Dorian down into his arms – still covered in his own seed – and rocking them both to sleep. 

Gabriel had woken up the next morning with a wicked hangover and a sore ass. _Serves him right_ , Dorian had thought. 

Trevelyan stood front and center of the group of mages, eagerly clutching his staff. Next to him stood Jarreth, whose eyes wandered between an intent stare at the ground, a longing gaze at Dorian, and sideways glance of contempt at Trevelyan. 

_Maker, take me. This ought to be interesting._

The Commander stood at the fore, pacing back and forth, her arms folded behind her back, her eyes closed but her footfalls landing in a perfect line. Her hair was pulled back into a taut bun, not a hair out of place on her head. She finally stopped in front of Trevelyan, and looked out over the small crowd. 

“You there!” She pointed to a mage in the third row. “You are not in formation. One half-step to your left.” The offending mage straightened himself out with a quick, jittery step. All of them were so bloody nervous, and nothing had even happened yet. 

She turned herself back to her pace, her face lingering on the crowd as her body moved with an otherworldly grace, her head finally turning back in the direction of her footfalls. 

“My name is Commander Helaine. Many are reluctant to include their rank,” she turned on her heel with impossible precision, and began marching in the opposite direction, “but that is because it is rare enough that they have not seen it deployed. Most change their mind when they fight alongside. All change their mind when they fight against.” 

_Ooooh. Inspiring._ Dorian tried not to roll his eyes.

“You have chosen to follow the path of the Knight Enchanter. While your fellow mages take their place in the rear, you will step forward. Standing in the front line, surrounded by muscle and steel, you will have no fear. Although your blade may be of a different ken, you will know your purpose. On the field of battle, you will command.” 

Dorian looked at Trevelyan, and although his countenance was trained to a severe scowl, he could see his eyes bulging just a little wider. _He’s about to immolate himself in excitement._

“Raise the hilt of your Spectral Blade in your hand.” The mages obeyed, holding the hilts at eye level in their staff arms. “Once you have summoned your Spectral Blade, the hilt will vanish into the Fade, to be called upon by you at your command.” 

Trevelyan’s eyes had narrowed, and although Dorian could feel the excitement wafting off him, he could see the focus in his gaze, as he stared at the Commander in front of him. In this moment, Dorian was sure that he’d chosen the right course. 

Trevelyan had greeted all of the trainers – this Commander, the absolute pill of a woman who’d seemingly invented a whole new school of magic based on the Rifts that tore across Thedas, and a Nevarran Mortalitasi – and had spent a considerable amount of time reading up on the three schools of magic he was presented with. Dorian had attempted to convince him to pursue Necromancy, offering to give him private lessons in the art. Trevelyan stared back at Dorian, his eyes half-shut and his eyebrows arched in exaggerated displeasure. 

“Please. You, I, and the rest of Skyhold know that by ‘private training session,’ you mean ‘fucking me until I explode like one of your Walking Bombs.’ You and I also know what happened the last time we mixed magic and pleasure.”

The faintest outline of Dorian’s hands remained on Trevelyan’s back, mostly because he hadn’t followed Dorian’s instructions and applied the poultice as required. Still, Trevelyan didn’t seem too disappointed by the marks, which were only noticeable when they caught the light at just the right angle. Dorian couldn’t help but be pleased, as much as he would allow himself to be, anyway. He hated to admit that it gave him the slightest modicum of happiness, because that admission meant he wanted more. And if he wanted more, sooner or later he’d have to confront Trevelyan about what he wanted, and he wasn’t ready for the possibility, however slim, that his answer might be unfavorable.

Trevelyan had pointed out that having two Necromancers would mean that he’d have less opportunity to drag Dorian out on field missions – it was obviously impractical to have two people with the same skillset in battle – and although Dorian wouldn’t mind avoiding a few missions, he’d rather Trevelyan left Vivienne or Solas back at Skyhold if given the option. 

The choice therefore came down to Rift Magic, or the Knight-Enchanter. Vivienne rallied hard for Trevelyan to follow in her footsteps – she spoke at length about the virtues of her chosen speciality, the ability of the Knight-Enchanter to lead the battle from the front lines, as the Inquisitor ought to do. No other school of magic, in her mind, would be more appropriate for Trevelyan to study. Solas had not been so zealous in trying to convince Trevelyan to pursue the craft of Rift Magic, even though he admitted that Trevelyan would likely have an easier time than he had mastering the art, considering Trevelyan’s amplified connection to the Fade in the form of the Anchor.

Vivienne had given one final, spirited appeal, which had unfortunately swayed Trevelyan. Dorian hated to think that the witch had any power to convince Trevelyan of anything at all, especially when Gabriel seemed to see right through her petty machinations, but alas, it appeared that she’d found a way to exploit Trevelyan, and she was keen to utilize it where she might. 

“My dear Inquisitor, there is simply no other choice,” she had said. “No other school of magic will bring you as much honor and prestige amongst the nobles and the Chantry. Aside from the importance of becoming a mage that the people can respect,” she cast a look at Dorian, “you already have the necessary qualities to master the art. The sheer willpower that was required to brave a blizzard and return to the Inquisition after the tragedy at Haven, an act that inspired the utmost devotion among your followers, practically assures your success. You are their leader, Inquisitor, and you must stand on the front lines, commanding your men, and the attention of the world.”

Dorian wanted nothing more than to leap out of his seat and tattle on her – _Gabriel, Vivienne is twisting the knife in your side!_ – but he presumed the act would be viewed as petty and divisive, and kept his mouth shut. Just barely. 

When he’d finally made his selection, he’d announced it to his Inner Circle, and Vivienne was positively elated. Dorian wanted nothing more than to summon a horde of spirits to chase her out of the room. _Petty and divisive, Pavus._

“It’s a noble calling, the Knight-Enchanter. You have joined the ranks of the most select mages. You should be commended. So few have the discipline necessary.”

“I didn’t realize you were a Knight-Enchanter, Vivienne,” Dorian said sarcastically.

“Of course I am, darling!” She responded, her voice haughty and joyous. “Knight-Enchanters serve in the highest echelons of the Chantry and Circle. Where else would I be?” She turned to Trevelyan, who smiled nervously. 

“I simply prefer to be on the front line.” He said, his tone dismissive of any deeper desire to tie himself to the Circle or the Chantry. She smiled nonetheless.

“It’s always best to take charge, my dear.” 

In spite of the fact that Trevelyan had not selected his discipline, Solas stepped to Trevelyan, his cool smile pulled across his face.

“If I am not mistaken, the techniques descend from those of ancient elven mages called arcane warriors. I wonder what they would think to see their magic used in defense of the Chantry.” _Interesting_ , Dorian thought. _Perhaps that is why Solas was not insistent on Trevelyan studying Rift Magic._

“I doubt they were called ‘arcane warriors’ in elven.” Trevelyan said, his voice a light chuckle.

Solas smiled brighter at the question. “The formal name of the techniques you have learned was the _Dirth’ena Enasalin_ – knowledge that led to victory. Mages who eschewed physical confrontation called it _Gilnan’him Banal’vhen_ , the path that leads astray.”

Trevelyan was intrigued. Dorian caught his lips mouthing the elven words slowly. He wondered whether or not Gabriel’s bloodline had anything to do with his excitement. “What can you tell me about the arcane warriors?” Trevelyan asked. 

“They were elite guardsmen, serving as bodyguards or champions for nobles, as I understand.” He looked to Dorian. “Mages who focused on spirits or the Fade might sneer at their physicality, but never doubted their honor. They were the living embodiment of will made manifest, mind shaping the body into the perfect weapon.”

Trevelyan frowned slightly. “I can’t imagine ancient elves would be happy to see their techniques used by Chantry mages.”

Solas sighed, and twisted his mouth into something that wasn’t quite a grimace. “Perhaps they would surprise you. So much knowledge has been lost. Perhaps, having something that they created carried forward, even in such a different form, would gratify them.” Dorian stared at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Solas politely nodded, and vacated the War Room quickly. His pronouncements regarding the ancient elves were always tinged with a strangely personal sadness. While Dorian could relate to feeling sorrow for an empire whose greatness had been lost to time, he never spoke of the Ancient Imperium as though he’d personally witnessed its downfall. Maybe the difference was that Solas had, during his time exploring the Fade.

Trevelyan stood waiting for his cue, his arm outstretched, the hilt pointed across his face. The blade would materialize right before his eyes. _And they call me showy._

“There are no borders for the mage who wields a Spectral Blade. There is respect, and there is fear. I cannot tell you if you are a leader. But you will show me. Focus your willpower on the hilt in front of you.”

Dorian saw Trevelyan’s eyes move, every so slightly, to the empty hilt before him. He watched, as he felt the Fade pull like the tide out to sea, moving toward the mages that stood in rank and file behind him. He saw Trevelyan’s jaw clench, and felt him forcing that energy into the hilt in his hand. His eyebrows furrowed, as he pulled more and more, the Anchor crackling quietly in his unoccupied palm.

To his right, a golden light burst into existence. _Jarreth_. The elf stood at the fore, the blade glowing brightly in front of his face. He pointed it forward, and slashed down toward his side. His eyes wandered to his left, where the Inquisitor had not managed to produce a blade. Trevelyan began to look frustrated. He recalled what Solas had said all that time ago – _Trevelyan was an average mage_ – but that hadn’t been the case since the Anchor. Why was he having such difficulty? Jarreth’s eyes remained to his left, and then he gazed at Dorian. 

_Maker, I’m going to crush that little brat._

Trevelyan dropped the hilt, and stood for a moment, a look of sheer defeat on his face. Dorian watched as Jarreth smirked, and allowed his blade to dissipate at his side, before flicking it back into existence, as if to say _it couldn’t be any easier._

Trevelyan looked down, and his head turned slightly. He suddenly grabbed the hilt with his left hand, and pulled it up in front of him.

Dorian felt the Fade pull around him like a delicate breeze, but there was something lurking behind gentle tug. Dorian couldn’t describe the sensation – he’d never quite felt anything like it before. It was almost as though someone had caught the Fade like a giant fish, and as they reeled it toward themselves, all you could see was its fin. 

He watched as the Anchor glowed, and all the power that had been lurking just beyond had leapt through the Veil all at once. The blade flew across Trevelyan’s face, glowing the same green as the Anchor, the bright ethereal emerald burning off the sword. His face was that of a victor, a leader. He slashed the blade forward, across his chest, and to his side. 

He lifted the blade before his face, studying the intricate markings that adorned it. Dorian was eager to get a closer look, and moved toward Vivienne, her face having returned to its natural state of frigidity. He heard Trevelyan’s voice murmur, “It’s light as a feather.”

“I imagine you are incredibly pleased with this turn of events.” Dorian turned to Vivienne. “You’d successfully manipulated Trevelyan into studying your preferred field of magic, only for him to succeed in his own _special_ way.” Trevelyan stood in front of them, blinking the blade in and out of existence. He’d managed to shift the blade back to his right hand when calling it back from the Fade, and he swiped it through the air, smiling at the unearthly sound it generated, like wind whipping through a tunnel. 

Vivienne turned to Dorian, her gaze cast down. “Whatever manipulation are you referring to, my dear? I merely made the most compelling argument, not that I had much in the way of competition. It matters not, darling. Trevelyan has chosen, and has succeeded, as I knew he would.”

_Vishante Kaffas. I’d like to compel you right off the battlements._

Several of the other mages had managed to generate their Spectral Blades, with only a scant few remaining that had been unable to summon the blinding ray of golden light. Trevelyan had made his way to each one, and stood behind them, coaching and encouraging them. 

He made his way behind an elven girl, who must have been the youngest of the pack. She shook with the effort of trying to produce her blade. Trevelyan stood just behind her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. He leaned in, and Dorian saw his lips move, a whisper into her ear. Her face softened for a moment, and her arm stopped shaking. The gilded blade burst forth, glimmering brightly in front of her. Trevelyan whooped loudly, clapping his hand on her shoulder. The blade vanished, and she turned to him, throwing her arms over his shoulders. He hugged her in return, and when they parted, he looked down at her, beaming with joy. Dorian looked on, puzzled at the display. 

“Alright!” The Commander’s voice cut across the group, who immediately returned to their file. Trevelyan stood, arms at his sides, trying mightily to suppress his grin. “You have all summoned your Blades. Excellent work. Now, for a demonstration of the power of the Knight Enchanter, I will ask that the Inquisitor step forward.”

Trevelyan took several steps forward, summoning the Spirit Blade at his side. 

“Will one of you step forward to challenge the Inquisitor?”

Instantaneously, Jarreth moved forward, summoning his own blade, and turning to face the Inquisitor in battle. He glanced over to Dorian, a severe look on his face.

“Oh my, darling.” Vivienne said, her voice quiet and breathy. “It appears you have an admirer eager to win your heart.”

“Nothing more that a little crush, I’m sure, and Trevelyan will take care of that. The crushing part, I mean.” Dorian retorted. Vivienne laughed at the back of her throat, a lovely, warm sound Dorian had never heard before. “Did you just…”

“Let’s not ruin the moment.”

“You’d never admit to it, and no one would believe me anyway.” 

“You are quite right, my dear.” 

The Commander had finished giving them their instructions, and stood, hand raised in the air. “On my mark, you will commence sparring.” She looked to Trevelyan, who nodded politely at her. She turned to Jarreth, who nodded brusquely, as he rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, waiting eagerly to pounce. 

Her hand fell through the air, and Jarreth charged like a rampaging druffalo, bringing his blade back and slashing out at Trevelyan, who hadn’t moved an inch. Trevelyan caught Jarreth’s blade with his own, and in a swift motion, shoved Jarreth back several paces. Trevelyan moved forward, each step calm and measured, as Jarreth refocused and swung again. Trevelyan caught his blade, and Jarreth pushed hard against it, teeth gritting angrily. Trevelyan appeared as though he was exerting no effort at all.

“Trevelyan understands the essence of the Knight-Enchanter,” Vivienne said. “It is control, dominance. The elf has already lost the battle.”

Suddenly, Jarreth’s left hand lashed out, and flames burst forth, consuming Trevelyan. The Commander yelled loudly at the pair, commanding them to stop, but neither moved. As quickly as they erupted, they had dissipated, and Trevelyan stood completely unharmed and unmoved, his Barrier gleaming brightly around him. 

Trevelyan stepped forward, and pushed down. Jarreth twisted in response to the increased force, and dropped to his knee, the Inquisitor’s blade bearing down upon him. Again, his left hand shot up, this time crackling with purple thunder, but Trevelyan was faster. The Mind Blast erupted around him, and Jarreth was sent flying several feet across the courtyard, spiraling through the air until he hit the ground with a loud thud. His blade vanished as he rolled along the ground, before coming to a stop, sprawled out on his side. He turned his head down to the ground, his eyes closed, hiding his face and his failure from all those who were watching in the courtyard.

Trevelyan’s blade shimmered out of existence, and he walked forward, stopping in front of Jarreth, before kneeling down to extend a hand to the fallen elf.

“Are you alright?” Trevelyan asked. Jarreth’s face turned upward, his eyes dejected, as he stared at Trevelyan. “That was quite a show!” Trevelyan said, his voice kind and jovial. Jarreth immediately gathered, himself, heaving himself off the ground with his own arms, standing back up in front of Trevelyan, his legs shaking slightly. His face was somewhere between furious and mortified. 

Trevelyan, still kneeling, looked up at the elf, and picked himself back up slowly. He turned to the Commander. “I believe that’s enough training for the day, if it’s all right with you, Commander?”

“I believe you are correct, Inquisitor. You have all done well. Recruits!” She raised her hand to her chest, in the Inquisition’s salute. The group responded in kind. “Dismissed!” 

Jarreth stood, hovering for a moment, looking at Trevelyan. His eyes shot over to Dorian for the briefest of moments, and he quickly turned, hastily fleeing from the battlefield. The rest of the mages departed, breaking off into small groups and whispering amongst each other about the display they’d just witnessed. Trevelyan walked over to Dorian and Vivienne, bowing his head respectfully to the Commander on his way. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea what that was all about,” Trevelyan said, rubbing the back of his head. “I hope he’s alright.”

“He will be fine, my dear. Save for his ego, and his heart.” Vivienne said cooly, before sauntering off toward the castle.

“What does she mean?” Trevelyan asked, watching her figure as she marched past the vendors in the courtyard.

“The little elven boy you flung across the courtyard?” Trevelyan turned to Dorian. “I think he fancied your little duel as one for my affection.” 

“Oh,” Trevelyan said, in a long, drawn-out breath, before twisting his face into grimace. “I hope he isn’t too broken up about it.”

“It had to happen sooner or later. Consider it an act of mercy.”

“You’re just glad you avoiding doing the dirty work.”

“Can’t pretend that I’m not.”

Trevelyan scowled at Dorian. He turned and looked out over the courtyard. The spectators that had gathered had dissipated, save for a few that stared on, watching Dorian and Trevelyan out of the corners of their eyes. _Eagerly scrounging for a morsel of gossip._

Trevelyan put a hand on Dorian’s shoulder, and Dorian could hear the silent roar around him, as the mouths began to decipher the meaning of this gesture. 

“Well, since I won that little scuffle, does that mean I get a reward?” He said, his voice quiet and playful. It had been a few days since they’d last had the pleasure of each other’s company, the longest they’d managed to go without in a very long while. Dorian didn’t even need to consider the question.

“Have it your way… but let’s go where a hundred onlookers won’t think I’m stealing the Inquisitor’s soul.” Dorian snarked. 

“I wasn’t suggesting we fuck in front of them,” Gabriel said. “They’ve already gotten their show for today. They can wait until tomorrow for another.”

“Speaking of shows,” Dorian said, as they began to march to the castle together, “you don’t have a million pressing issues to take care of?”

“Not today. My schedule was cleared for training. You can thank your little elven lover boy for bringing that to an early end.” 

“I never so much as touched the lad.” 

“That’s good to know.” Trevelyan’s eyes rolled over to Dorian, his mouth pulled in a taut grin over his teeth.

“Speaking of touching elves, who was that girl? The one who hugged you?” Dorian asked.

“I knew her from my circle. She’d been with a Dalish clan, and had come to the Circle only a year or two before the rebellion. She was a very talented mage, but when the rebellion came, she decided to join them. Life in a Circle wasn’t for her, she’d said at the time.” Trevelyan sighed, before turning back to Dorian. “Why? Were you jealous?”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “So, nothing to do for the rest of the day, then?” He said, exasperated by Trevelyan’s sense of humor. 

“Well, it depends. I told you how Varric suddenly remembered where his _friend_ was, after all this time?”

“Oh yes, _the Champion of Kirkwall_. Is she supposed to arrive today?”

“Apparently, some time before dinner. Varric wants to sneak her in as quickly as possible, for a meeting on the battlements.” They began walking up the stairs. Several onlookers watched as Trevelyan ushered Dorian in front of him. Dorian turned his head around, and caught Trevelyan biting his lips, eyes locked on his ass. 

“I’m up here, mind you,” Dorian feigned annoyance, but deep down, he relished that the Inquisitor could never seem to get enough. Today’s afternoon dalliance was proof of that. “And you said that they didn’t deserve another show today. What are you going to call it when Cassandra kills the dwarf?” 

“She’s not going to kill him,” Trevelyan sighed. “Throttle? Maybe. Strangle? If she can get her hands around his throat.”

“Now that, I’d pay to see. I wonder if Varric would take a wager on his own life?”

“Enough about those two,” they swept through the hall, which was populated with several nobles, each turning and greeting the Inquisitor by name. They made their way to the room that lead to the Inquisitor’s chambers, and Trevelyan opened the door and ushered Dorian in. Dorian could swear he’d heard the sound of several fans snapping open at once, to cover the mouths of the chattering nobility. _Gossipmongers_. He wondered if Trevelyan was at all aware of the buzz the pair generated together. 

They began to make their way up the stairs to his room, Trevelyan playfully smacking at Dorian’s ass the entire way. Dorian stopped for a moment, and Trevelyan climbed up behind him, his hands sliding around Dorian’s body, his mouth on Dorian’s neck. He worked his fingers underneath Dorian’s pants and grabbed at his cock. 

“You know,” Trevelyan said, kissing up to Dorian’s ear. “I walked out of the Fade. I survived a trip through time.”

“Thanks to me.”

“Thanks to you,” Trevelyan quickly acquiesced, squeezing Dorian’s balls lightly in his hand. “I climbed out from under an avalanche. And I kicked a little elf boy’s ass today.”

Dorian chuckled at the stark comparison. Trevelyan removed his hands, and pushed Dorian further up the stairs. The door to his bedroom flew open, and Trevelyan practically flung Dorian up the stairs toward his bed. Dorian made short work of his clothes, as they came undone from his body – he’d taught Trevelyan the same spell, and was happen to see him putting it to good use – and he turned to look at Trevelyan. “I don’t think the last one is quite comparable.” 

Trevelyan grabbed him by the sides and heaved him on to the bed, falling eagerly on top of him, pressing into his body as they slid up to the pillows. 

“You are absolutely right. You’re a much better prize than anything I’ve gotten from those other three victories.” Trevelyan said, shaking his head for dramatic effect. 

Dorian quickly pulled him in for a kiss, and delighted in the silence between them as he felt Trevelyan’s hands work over his body. It wasn’t that he wasn’t eager to hear the words coming out of Trevelyan’s mouth. But the seed of doubt had been planted in his mind. Surely, he was a prize, but what kind of prize? A sexual conquest? Trevelyan had already conquered him on the War Room table, and had proceeded to conquer him time and time again since that night. Dorian wanted more than anything to believe that Trevelyan meant that… well, that this was more than just anything, that he wasn’t just a convenient distraction for Gabriel, that this was deeper and more meaningful than just a way to pass the time.

Trevelyan wrapped his mouth around Dorian’s cock, and Dorian’s head rolled back, moaning loudly in an attempt to overpower his thoughts. Thankfully, the back of Trevelyan’s throat pressing against the tip of his dick did just the trick. 

Trevelyan climbed onto Dorian’s lap, eagerly pressing Dorian’s cock against his hole. Dorian pulled him down to kiss him, and felt himself beginning to slide inside Trevelyan, as the light danced on their slick skin, their bodies moving in unison. Trevelyan rose and fell in Dorian’s lap, Dorian’s hips rising to greet Trevelyan as he fell. As they melted into each other, all of the thoughts that occupied Dorian’s mind dissipated, and he could distract himself from the nagging thoughts that had all too recently taken root in his mind. 

Dorian did not want to be a fleeting distraction, but he was thankful that Gabriel was. 

___

 

Dorian and Alexius continued to stare at each other, moments of silence slipping through their fingers like sand in an hourglass. Dorian had no response. _For once in your life._

“So you are hoping for nothing, then? That is very unlike you, Dorian.” Alexius said knowingly. 

“There is nothing to hope for, Alexius.” Dorian attempted to shut him down. “Aren’t there more important things we could be discussing?”

“So it’s true, then? You and the Inquisitor?” Alexius continued to regard Dorian’s face for even the slightest tremor. Dorian sighed. 

“I don’t know what exactly you’ve heard, so I can neither confirm nor deny anything.”

“Alright then, Dorian. Let us start with the basics.” Dorian couldn’t help the indignant look that crept across his face.

“This isn’t a discussion of magical theory back in your study, Alexius.” Dorian wanted nothing more than to curtail this conversation immediately. He could easily turn, alert the guard, and walk out of the prison, into the courtyard, and back up to the comfort of his chair in the library – _The chair Trevelyan gave you_ – but his feet would not move.

“Are you and the Inquisitor involved in a romantic relationship?” 

“Depends on your definition of romance.” Dorian muttered lowly.

“So you are bedding him.” 

“This is completely inappropriate.” Dorian said.

“You have never shied away from inappropriate topics before, Dorian.” Alexius said, again in that knowing tone. Dorian felt like he was going to combust. _What do you know, old man? You threw away everything you had for a chance, and look how that turned out for you._

“Alexius…” Dorian’s voice trailed off threateningly. He was reminded of their falling out, years ago. The roles felt reversed, in a way. Alexius attempting to broach a topic that Dorian just couldn’t bear to discuss, Dorian reacting angrily to the suggestion. The only difference was that Alexius couldn’t leave after all the fighting was finished.

“Dorian, I am only pursuing this line of reasoning because I care. I never begrudged you your dalliances during your time under my tutelage.” 

“It’s not a dalliance!” Dorian shouted. He grabbed his mouth in shock. He’d thought it, sure. He’d even let himself hope, if only in tiny, well-reasoned amounts, and always for the right things. But the way Alexius’ eyes glinted at him now was almost too much for him to bear. Trevelyan attempted to peel back the armor, but he’d only known Dorian but a half a year. Alexius had known him for the better part of a decade, and in that time, he’d learned how to cut through the walls and strike right at Dorian’s heart. It was never an act of malice, but he forced Dorian to open his eyes and gaze at himself in a mirror, and it was always painful. 

_The only time looking in a mirror is painful, thankfully._

“Ah.” Alexius said, his voice quiet, his eyes shining with understanding. “So, you are hoping for more.”

___

 

Dorian sat at his desk in his room, the Amulet of Time floating carefully above his palm. He’d rifled through Alexius’ books like a madman, flipping through the pages of the musty old tomes in a furious attempt to find his notes on time magic. He’d torn through all of the usual suspects, desperate to find hide or hair of any of his research. _Had it been taken by the Venatori?_ Dorian shuddered at the thought of another Amulet being constructed by Calpernia. _No one should wield that power, especially not a Tevinter magister who is completely comfortable sacrificing thousands of innocents._

He grabbed another book, and began to flip through the pages, when a note fell out. It was in Felix’s handwriting. _Where did Father hide his copies of ‘The Naughty Dowager’?_

Dorian chuckled lightly at the reference. During one of the nights Felix had snuck him treats, they’d accidentally stumbled upon a secret compartment in one of Alexius’ desk drawers, a false bottom that he hadn’t even bother to magic shut, filled to the brim with smut. _But what could Felix mean?_

Dorian stood for a moment, pondering. He looked down at the boxes, marked carefully with arrows so that they were kept upright and the books were not overturned during their journey from Tevinter. 

_That’s it._

He quickly removed the contents of the box, magicking them through the air and into neat piles on the floor. He overturned the crate, and grabbed for his staff, jamming the blade end underneath the wood. 

_Come on._

He pushed down and watched as the board was pried free. He looked inside the box, and saw all the papers, in his tight, looping script, that contained the secrets of unraveling time and space. The box had been constructed with a false bottom, and the notes were hidden underneath. Luckily, they hadn’t been damaged during travel. Dorian pried the rest of the boards free, and pulled out the parchment and paper, careful to be sure that everything was accounted for.

_Thank you, Felix._

Now, with all of his notes, Dorian had been able to successfully tear away the layers upon layers of magic that he had woven into the amulet. When he’d finally managed to strip it clean, he stared at it, sitting so comfortably in his palm, completely powerless. It seemed so strange that such a tiny chunk of metal could have changed the very fate of the world.

He had reviewed several theories that had been tugging at the corners of his mind, but of course, he had remembered them perfectly. He was smart enough to know that when dealing in theories of magic that could rip apart the very fabric of reality, one ought to reconfirm their suspicions. He had begun the process of transforming the amulet into something useful that might have some practical applications in battle. Maker only knew how many more times Trevelyan would throw himself in front of an arrow or a blade or a dragon. 

The Amulet returned to his palm. It wouldn’t be much longer before Dorian finished his modifications to the amulet, and began to perform tests to determine their efficacy.

He tucked the amulet back into his pocket. He was more than satisfied with his work for the day, and he twisted himself in his chair to stretch out his back. The light of late afternoon poured in through his window, and he yawned loudly. He and Gabriel had spent an hour or so tucked away behind the red velvet curtains of his bed, Gabriel taking every inch of Dorian’s cock into himself. Trevelyan was always determined to drain Dorian dry, and Dorian had no doubt that he would have, were it not for the knock on the door, informing that Varric needed to see him on the battlements. Trevelyan had let the scout know that he’d be down in the Main Hall in ten minutes, and quickly returned his attention to Dorian.

“I can get one more out of you.” 

“Would it kill you to wait until later?” Dorian asked, as Trevelyan tightened around him. _Kaffas_. Trevelyan bowed down and kissed Dorian, bouncing gently on his cock.

“Possibly. And do you really want to take that chance?” He pouted. Dorian grabbed a pillow and smacked him with it. Trevelyan laughed, and clenched around Dorian again. Dorian shuddered. “Besides, I can finish you off again later, I’m sure.” 

Dorian rolled his eyes, then grabbed Trevelyan and flipped him on his back, pumping aggressively into his hole, feeling himself shatter into pieces inside of Trevelyan’s warmth. Trevelyan came shortly thereafter, and Dorian bowed down, eagerly drinking every drop of Trevelyan’s orgasm. 

“Can’t have you meeting the Champion of Kirkwall covered in your own mess.” Dorian joked. Trevelyan kissed him deeply, and rolled out of the bed, moving toward his clothes.

“I swear,” Trevelyan muttered, “I taste so much better on your tongue.” 

They’d managed to make it down to the Main Hall right on time. Trevelyan marched right off to the battlements, and Dorian decided to return to the library to grab a few books, before heading off to his bedroom. As he made his way through the Hall, he couldn’t help but overhear the gossip and snide commentary that he’d become accustomed to over the past several months in Skyhold. _Does the Inquisitor have no shame, spending so much time with a Tevinter magister? He’s only resorted to seduction because blood magic would be more obvious_. Today, Dorian was lucky enough to hear a particularly crass gem from a Fereldan noble, just as Dorian pushed the door open to make his way to the library. 

“I’m surprised he can even walk, what with how the Inquisitor fills out his trousers.”

Dorian had made it a point to walk from the library to his quarters across the balcony, nodding a polite hello to Vivienne as he passed her, which she graciously returned. 

He picked himself up from his chair in his room, and carefully tucked away his notes into his drawer, which he carefully locked and magicked with a spell that would cause an unwise intruder to burst out into painful, itchy hives, unless they properly disarmed the curse. He opened his door and stepped out into the cool air. The sun was beginning to set over the Frostbacks, and his eyes scanned across the battlements in his view, until they came to rest on Trevelyan, standing attentively. Varric stood with a bottle in his hand, facing Trevelyan and Marian Hawke. 

Her back was to Dorian, but her long raven locks danced in the wind, and Dorian caught glimpses of her pale skin glinting in the sunlight. _The Champion of Kirkwall._

_Who would ever want to be Champion of that shithole?_

In spite of her poor selection of cities to lord over, Dorian was eager to get a closer look at Hawke. He’d never admit that he’d read through Varric’s _Tales of the Champion_ in all of three days, but he was eager to put a face to the words on the page. She’d allegedly defeated the Arishok single-handedly. She’d killed the mage, Anders – or was it the abomination, Vengeance? – after he’d destroyed the Chantry at Kirkwall, in spite of her support for the mage rebellion. How could he not be curious to see the woman who’d arguably brought the tensions between the southern mages and Templars to a head?

_Remember to thank her. Gabriel wouldn’t have had to clean up this whole mage-Templar mess if it weren’t for her._

He didn’t want to sneak over to the battlements with no excuse – everything he did engendered suspicion – and his mind raced to think of a reason to get closer to where she stood. _I’m not in the mood to speak with Sera – now or ever, really. Bull is probably already half-drunk with the Chargers. I wonder what the Lady Seeker is doing? Probably plotting how she’s going to dismember Varric after all of this is done._

_Perfect._

Dorian quickly ran back into his room, and grabbed the latest volume of _Swords and Shields_ off his desk, before bolting towards the spot where the Lady Seeker could usually be found, brutalizing training dummies in an attempt to scare people away from her. He’d been too ashamed to be caught reading it in the library. He’d tried desperately to get through the novel, but it was so syrupy it made his teeth hurt. He could hardly imagine why Cassandra, of all people, would be interested in such romantic drivel, when the novel seemed targeted toward women like his mother, desperate noblewomen eager for a taste of adventure – which Cassandra had, in spades – and romance – which Cassandra did not – that had long since evaporated from their lives. 

She had referred to the book as, “smut,” which made Dorian giggle when he’d gotten to the first romance scene. Granted, the Knight-Captain was a female, but he was able to appreciate graphic depictions of sexual depravity regardless of the gender of those involved, even if he had zero interest in replicating those acts in real life. The book was filled with vague suggestions, mere hints of liaisons between characters, which did absolutely nothing for Dorian. He’d spent more time critiquing Varric’s heavy-handed prose than anything, and had almost used the book as kindling before reminding himself that it was borrowed. Replacing it would mean purchasing a new copy, which would help to fill Varric’s pockets, and he wasn’t about to lose even more coin to the dastardly dwarf. 

“Good evening, Cassandra.” Dorian said, his voice lilting and unassuming. Cassandra continued to stare up the wall of the battlements, at the small flickers of Hawke’s hair flapping elegantly into view when the wind blew just right. She didn’t respond immediately to Dorian’s greeting, so he stood next to her and followed her gaze. “Something on your mind?”

“Yes. How exactly I am going to make that _little shit_ pay for lying to us this entire time.” Her voice was venomous. “I wonder if there are any stockades short enough for a dwarf.”

“Now’s probably not the best time, but I came to return that book you lent me.” Dorian continued staring up, but reached out to hand the book to Cassandra. She snatched it from his hands and looked down at the back cover, which was graced with an absolutely ridiculous portrait of Varric, being fondled by several beautiful women. She made to throw the book at the wall in front of them, but thought better of it, dropping her arm to her side, her hand attempting to make a fist around the novel.

“I cannot believe he could be so treacherous.” She spat. “He has pretended to be our ally all along, and then she shows up at his beck and call.” She turned to look at Dorian. “ _You’ve_ given us less reason to be distrusting than that _cretin_!” 

Dorian’s ears prickled. “And why shouldn’t you trust me?” 

Cassandra scowled. “Because you are Tevinter. Do you blame us for having questioned your motives?”

“Frankly, no. However, I do blame you for your faulty line of reasoning.” Dorian tried desperately to control the volume of his voice. He’d very much like to avoid drawing Trevelyan’s attention. “I’m not the only person here with questionable origins, Cassandra. You’ve got an apostate elven mage who seemingly fell out of the Fade, another elf who is quite possibly insane, and a _Ben-Hassrath spy_ , and yet, none of them have faced anywhere near the scrutiny that I have.”

“None of them are romantically involved with the Inquisitor. You have invited the scrutiny upon yourself.” She was seething. It was quite possible that Dorian had chosen the wrong moment, and the wrong mountain to die on. Dorian suspected that both his ire and Cassandra’s were merely misdirected, but the thought was insufficient to stop him.

“You act as though I’ve bled half the castle dry to magic the Inquisitor into my arms!” Dorian sputtered, his lips pulled taut against his teeth in an angry sneer. “I have made no attempt to involve anyone else in my affairs, but regardless of my desire to avoid the animosity of the masses, I’m under the perpetual gaze of every member of the Inquisition, and Maker knows who else. Tell me, Seeker: Do you and Sister Nightingale sit idly gossiping about how many times Trevelyan and I have fucked in one week, or does she just hand you a report?”

“What did you think would happen, Dorian, when you became involved with Trevelyan? Anyone in your position would find themselves in the exact same predicament – if not for very different reasons.” 

“I am not the Inquisitor, Cassandra. I have avoided involvement in as much of the Inquisition’s affairs as humanly possible. I am not going to apologize for acts I haven’t committed or words I haven’t spoken.” 

“Dorian, you are too capable for me to believe that you could be so naïve.” She rolled her eyes at him. 

“I am not playing at anything, Cassandra.” Dorian fumed, but he knew that he’d been backed into a corner, and he wanted nothing more than to turn on his heel and walk away.

“The reality is this, Dorian.” Cassandra narrowed her eyes. “You have chosen to involve yourself with the Inquisition, and furthermore, to involve yourself in whatever relationship you might have with the Inquisitor. Any and everything you do invites inquiry not only upon yourself, but on the Inquisitor as well. We all bear the same burden, but you will inevitably bear a heavier one. Your relationship-“

“Oh, _what relationship_ , Cassandra?!” Dorian shouted. 

“Yeah Cassandra, _what relationship_?” A female voice, calling from above them. Dorian felt the pit in his stomach, and his eyes turned upward. Looking down at him was Marian Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, her long, black hair pooling down around her face like waterfalls. Even from this distance, Dorian could see her pale blue eyes twinkling down, the blood red swipe over her button nose, and the smirk playing across her rosebud lips. 

He would almost find her charming, if it weren’t for the fact that he was melting into a puddle on the ground. 

And summarily, Trevelyan’s head appeared over the battlements, looking down, an expression of confusion on his face. When he realized who he was looking at, he smiled brightly, his eyes transfixed on Dorian. Dorian’s look of abject horror twisted itself into a forced smile, and he waved politely up at Trevelyan.

“Oh.” Hawke said, her face turned toward Trevelyan, shifting her eyes back and forth between him and Dorian. “ _That_ relationship.” And she disappeared over the battlements.

_Maker, take me._

___

 

“I have no further desire to discuss this.” Dorian turned away from his former mentor, his jaw clenched, his brows sinking heavily. _Gather yourself, Pavus._

“Dorian, I am not attempting to instigate an argument, I merely wanted to understand.” Alexius said, his voice sincere. Dorian stopped moving, and turned back. “I can never take back what I have done. I have failed you, and Felix.” He looked down at the floor. “I am relishing the opportunity to have a conversation with my former mentee. It is more than I deserve, I know.”

“Fine.” Dorian murmured. “The Inquisitor and I… I don’t know. I’m just trying to enjoy myself.”

“And are you?” 

“Yes.”

“As long as you avoid thinking about the situation for too long.”

“Yes.” Dorian grumbled. “I’m sure you’re enjoying yourself, now.”

“Come, Dorian. I find no comfort in your misery.” His turned up in a small smile. “In spite of everything I have done, I want nothing more for you than your happiness. I know how that seemed an impossibility in the Imperium.” 

Dorian felt it begin to well up, and he did his best to push it all back down, but he couldn’t quite keep his voice sturdy. “It was an impossibility, with all the crushing expectations. For some foolish reason, I thought things would be different here.”

“It is a part of life, Dorian. No matter where you may find yourself.” Alexius replied. 

“In a Tevinter whorehouse or the bed of the Inquisitor,” Dorian sighed. “The rumors have already begun to spread. I wonder how long it will take for them to reach the Imperium.” 

“I would rather not be the one to bring this up, but you do understand how your father will react when he catches wind of this?” Alexius said, his tone concerned.

“Spirit me back to Qarinus, lock me up, and throw away the key?” Dorian spat. Alexius had no idea what his father had been planning to do to him. No one did, save for Elodin, and Maker knows what had happened to her, if his father had found out that she was the one who helped him to escape. _Maker, I hope she’s all right_. He quietly reassured himself that whatever monster Halward Pavus might have become, he would never…

_Change you with a blood magic ritual? Don’t be so sure of anything, Pavus._

Dorian shivered at the thought.

“You do not understand, Dorian. A parent will do anything to help their child. Even when their child does not need the help.”

“I certainly didn’t.” Dorian spat.

“I never said you did.” Alexius smiled at him. Dorian’s eyes stared off at nothing in particular.

“I should be going. I’ve been down here long enough; they’ll think I’m plotting to break you out.”

“It was good to speak with you, Dorian. Might I see you again?” He asked.

“I can’t make any promises. They might behead me next week, at the rate things are going.” Dorian quipped. He looked down at his former mentor, and took a step forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, about Felix.” 

“Thank you,” he muttered, his voice laced with sorrow once again. Dorian squeezed his shoulder slightly, before pulling away and walking to the door. “Dorian?” He stopped, and leaned his head back to stare at his former patron. “I know you have little need for advice from me, but if I may?”

“Of course.”

“I know how deeply you care. You can pretend, gloss over it all with a quip or an insult, but you care.”

“You have me all figured out. What was the advice?”

“Try not to let the gossip get to you.”

“I will.” Dorian turned away.

“And Dorian?”

“Yes, Alexius?” 

“He would be lucky to have you, no matter what these fool southerners might think.”

___

 

After Trevelyan had pulled his head back over the battlements, Dorian spat a string of Tevene curses at the Seeker and turned on his heel, fleeing in embarrassment. He quickly grabbed dinner, and brought it back to his room, pawing through whatever of Alexius’ old books he’d spirited from the library, nibbling at the chicken and vegetables on his plate. He was waiting for the inevitable blowback from his reaction, from the Seeker, or from Trevelyan himself. 

The night fell quickly, and he debated going to the Tavern for a drink, but he had no desire to accidentally run into Cassandra. He thought they’d developed something of a rapport over the past few months, but he’d clearly been mistaken. He found it hard to believe that a woman who had such an easy time striking out from the Chantry would have a hard time abandoning her preconceived notions about Tevinter, once she’d gotten to know him.

_Because you’ve done such an incredible job trying to get to know these people, or letting them get to know you._

His mind made the same disgusted noise that he was used to hearing from Cassandra’s throat. The reality was plain before him. If he wanted the perception of him to change, he would have to actively work to change it. That meant less time hiding away in his alcove and more time involving himself with the Inquisition. It also meant that he’d have to apologize to Cassandra. _You have become far too comfortable with apologies as of late, Pavus._

Whatever hope he might have for anything with Trevelyan, he couldn’t continue on this course. Continuing to eschew his effect on the Inquisitor’s reputation would only engender contempt, at which point Trevelyan would turn him out into the cold, and then, where would he go? Back to Qarinus?

_Father would be overjoyed._

He heard a knock on his door. He picked his feet up off his desk, and stood up, moving quickly to the door. Trevelyan’s smiling face greeted him.

“You weren’t at dinner.”

“I wanted to eat in my room.” _Not a complete lie_. Dorian opened the door fully, and walked over toward his bed. Trevelyan closed the door behind him, and fell back on to the bed next to Dorian.

“Lucky. You missed me stopping Cassandra from killing Varric with her bare hands.”

“Really?” Dorian feigned ignorance, sitting by Trevelyan’s side.

“Are you that surprised?” Trevelyan laughed. “I managed to calm her down long enough to remind her that killing him now wouldn’t be doing us any favors. And then I reminded him that he better not be keeping any other important secrets from us.” He chuckled lightly. “It seems like Hawke causes a stir wherever she goes.”

“ _The Champion of Kirkwall_ ,” Dorian exaggerated the words. “Why did she come, now of all times?”

“She’s concerned about the Grey Wardens. She thinks that Corypheus might be influencing them. One of her contacts, some Warden named Stroud, apparently has been hiding in an old smuggler’s cave out in Crestwood. It seems like we’ll have to head out there, and soon.”

“I thought I’d heard some mention that the dead have been rising from the lakes, attacking their villagers?”

“You heard correctly. We’ll have plenty of problems to keep us occupied.” Trevelyan smirked at him, his eyebrows arched.

“Wonderful. I expect you’d like me to come along.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.” Trevelyan said. 

“As much as I would love to laze around Skyhold while you do all the heavy lifting, I’m afraid that you’ll have to put up with my company.” Dorian responded.

“Wait, really?” Trevelan said, looking genuinely stunned.

“Is it that surprising? You said it yourself, Corypheus may be involved in the disappearance of the Wardens. In case you’d forgotten, I had asserted that my reason for being here was to see him destroyed, once and for all.” 

Trevelyan smiled warmly at him. “I’m happy you’ll be tagging along.” He pulled Dorian back against the bed, and kissed him. “But I didn’t come here to convince you to join us on our little expedition.” 

“You came here to strip me naked and have your way with me again.” Dorian said, his voice dripping with lust. Trevelyan had already drained him twice, earlier in the day, and yet, he hadn’t quite had his fill. _That problem seems to be mutual._

“I was thinking of letting you have your way with me again.” Trevelyan said, as the buckles of Dorian’s shirt came undone with a wave. 

“I’m open to suggestions,” Dorian returned, watching as Trevelyan’s pants slipped off his body.

They tangled themselves up in each other, their bodies connecting as though they hadn’t touched each other in years, their lips desperate for even an ounce more leverage as their hands groped greedily across their bodies. Their mouths explored every inch of each other, their chests, their nipples, their shoulders, their thighs. Trevelyan’s head found its way between Dorian’s legs as Dorian’s tongue lashed over Trevelyan’s hole. 

Trevelyan rolled Dorian over, onto his back, and oiled Dorian’s hole up, sliding into him easily, as Dorian died a million deaths, his heart unable to beat with the pace of Trevelyan’s thrusts.

He’d drag Dorian to the edge, and stop, pulling him back, over and over again. Dorian writhed against him, his eyes watering in response to the sensation, feeling Trevelyan fill him completely with each smooth motion, pressing up against his spot. Dorian moaned loudly in protest, begging for release.

“Be patient.” Trevelyan whispered into his ear, driving himself into Dorian and moaning loudly at the sensation. “Trust me.”

“I do,” Dorian murmured, before writhing again underneath Trevelyan’s touch. He felt Trevelyan’s legs shaking underneath him, pushing his endurance to its limits. 

It felt like an eternity before Trevelyan allowed Dorian the earth-shattering pleasure of his release, violent spasms rocking Dorian’s body as his orgasm covered himself in his seed. He felt Trevelyan, rock hard inside of him, loosing himself into Dorian, his cock pumping deep with every sputter. 

Trevelyan fell on top of him, eagerly lapping up every ounce of Dorian's seed his mouth could reach, thrusting gently into him. Dorian was sore and exhausted from the effort, but he enjoyed this more than anything. Trevelyan winced slightly, the tenderness of his cock exacerbated by Dorian’s taut hole, and Dorian savored every greedy push, drunk off the knowledge that all Trevelyan wanted was just another moment inside of him. 

In that moment, it was all Dorian wanted, too.

They fell asleep soon after, Trevelyan’s arms wrapped around Dorian as they laid on their sides, his thick, swollen cock pressed up against Dorian’s ass, his lips lazily planting kisses on the back of Dorian’s neck.

“Goodnight, beautiful.” Trevelyan murmured.

Dorian didn’t have the energy to respond.

___

 

They had woken up early, and Trevelyan had practically begged Dorian for another go. Dorian had caught on to Trevelyan’s tricks, and tried desperately to escape from his clutches, but he was powerless against Trevelyan’s kiss, eagerly melting back into him.

They planted themselves in between each other’s legs, and sucked each other to orgasm. Trevelyan picked his head back up, a dribble of Dorian running down his chin, and Dorian eagerly traced the line with his tongue, kissing Trevelyan deeply. 

“Let’s just lie here all day. I don’t think I’ve kissed every inch of you just yet.” Trevelyan said, dragging Dorian down to the bed.

“You have to go talk to everyone about Crestwood. We can’t just leave Hawke waiting, and you know it.”

“You could at least amuse me.” Trevelyan whined, before letting Dorian free to pick himself up and get dressed. “I never asked you: why were you down below the battlements talking to Cassandra yesterday?”

“To be honest,” Dorian said, swatting Trevelyan’s hand off his ass so he could pull up his pants, “I wanted to get a closer look at the Lady Hawke.” 

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Trevelyan snarked. 

“I suppose so. Then again, I only caught a glimpse of her.” Dorian said as cooly as possible, pulling his shirt over his shoulders. 

“Did she bother you?” Trevelyan asked. Dorian had been expecting the question to come up at some point. _What relationship?_ He turned to Trevelyan.

“Why would she have?” Dorian maintained perfect composure.

“No reason. You just seemed irked, was all.” Trevelyan made a face that Dorian couldn't quite place, and finally pulled himself out of bed. Dorian made for the door, but Trevelyan grabbed his arm and pulled him back for a sweet kiss.

“Get dressed.” Dorian poked him in the chest. “I’ll not have Leliana come chasing me down because you’re still in bed. I’ll see you in the Main Hall.” 

“Have a nice day, beautiful.” 

Dorian opened up the door and stepped out into the sunlight. It would be a good day.

___

 

Dorian stared at the door in front of him. _Alright, Pavus. Endear yourself to the Inquisition. You started at the top; time to work your way down._

He pushed the door open. Cullen stood, hunched over his desk, his fingers running across whatever parchments were unfurled in front of him. Dorian steadily approached him, and he looked up from his work.

“Dorian,” Cullen said. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Not at the moment.” Dorian said. Cullen’s brow furrowed quizzically. “I overheard you speaking with Josephine last week. She’d said that she’d procured a suitable chess set for you?”

“Ah, yes. I’ve been meaning to find some time to play…” His voice trailed off.

“Well, if you ever need an opponent, I would appreciate the chance to sharpen my skills.” Dorian smiled. “I would have asked Bull to play, but I’m afraid he’d just smash the board with his maul.” 

“Bull is a surprisingly tactical thinker.” Cullen said with a slight chuckle. “He’s actually shared several suggestions for training small squads as shock troops. The Chargers are surprisingly effective.”

“Have you ever talked to the elf?” Dorian asked.

“The one who claims she’s an archer?” Cullen chortled. “As long as her ‘arrows’ are pointed at our enemies, I suppose I can forgive her… idiosyncrasies.”

“A surprisingly diplomatic response from a man who regularly advises his charges to slaughter their foes.” They both laughed politely. “Well, I’ll be on my way, but if you ever find yourself with a moment to spare and a desire to lose, you know where to find me.” 

“I’ll have you know I’m quite skilled.” Cullen called after Dorian, who had opened the door to leave. Dorian turned, eager to get in the last word. 

“That’s what they all say, Commander.” 

He heard the Commander moan lowly at the innuendo. _You said you would endear yourself to the Inquisition, Dorian. And you were nothing if not yourself._

It was mid-morning, a few hours before lunch would be served, but he was feeling strangely peckish. He had decided to venture down to the kitchens to see if he might grab some bread, or one of those delicious Orlesian pastries that Josephine had ordered from Val Royeaux and expressly prohibited him from touching. 

_Endear, Dorian. Not flagrantly disobey._

He entered the kitchen, and found one of the workers hunched over the over. 

“Excuse me, I was wondering if you might have… Oh! Sylenna!” He recognized her when he caught sight of her ears. She turned around and jumped when she realized who was standing before her.

“Oh! Master Pavus! Excuse me!” She apologized, bowing deeply.

“Sylenna, you shouldn’t call me that. You are _liberati_ now.” Dorian chastised her.

“I am sorry,” she bowed again. Dorian rolled his eyes. _This is impossible_. “What would you prefer that I call you?”

“Dorian should be fine.” He said, making his way over to a basket on the counter that overflowed with small loaves and rolls. The Orlesian pastries sat next to them, tempting him, their delicious, ruby jam filling spilling out of them like sweet entrails. _Endear!_

“But everyone else calls you ‘Master Pavus.’” Sylenna protested nervously. Dorian walked over to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. She didn’t seem to understand, the way that heads would turn, if they heard a former Tevinter slave calling an expatriate Tevinter noble ‘Master.’ 

“I understand why you are concerned. But you will not be punished for calling me by my name.” She looked at him, rolling the idea around in her head. Dorian wanted to shake her free of it, but it wasn’t so simple. She would grow to understand, to change. Dorian was doing what he could expedite the process. “I’m guessing they have you working in the kitchen, now?”

“Yes, Ma–“ she stopped, before correcting herself. “Yes, Dorian,” she stumbled over his name, as though it were a word she’d never pronounced before. “I had explained to the Lady Ambassador, who was very gracious and patient, that I had worked in Master Alexius’ kitchen.” 

“You shouldn’t be calling Alexius ‘Master,’ either. No one is your master any longer.” 

She looked at him, and nodded, her lips twisted in a wan smile. “I’m sorry. I am happy, to be free, I am. I just… I am still learning.” 

“It’s all right.” Dorian smiled warmly. “Have they paid you yet?”

She looked up at him, beaming. “Yes! Just yesterday!” She produced a small, leather satchel that clinked gently as she shook it. “I couldn’t believe it.” She looked down at the bag. “It’s not like I’ve never held a coin in my hand before. I used to go to the market for M… Alexius.” She said, her giddiness breaking momentarily as she got his name out without the honorific. “But I’ve never held a bag of coin that was my own.” Her voice cracked as her eyes began to tear. “I’m sorry. I must seem so foolish…”

“Not at all,” He rubbed her shoulder gently. “I can’t even imagine how it must feel.” Dorian sighed, turning his face to her. “More importantly, what are you going to spend it on?”

Her eyes went wide, and she looked out the door of the kitchen, into the courtyard below. “I… I hadn’t even thought about that.” 

“Well, you should.” Dorian pulled his hand away. “And when you do, come find me. I’d like to hear all about it.” He began to walk away. “Until then.”

“Goodbye, Dorian.” 

He made his way up to the Main Hall, his gait unusually light. It had been a wonderful morning, and his day hade gone exceptionally well thus far. He had things to look forward to, other than alone time with Trevelyan and the occasional glass of wine while he read through Alexius’ old tomes in his comfortable chair. He walked out into the Main Hall, impervious to the stares and the whispers of the nobility. Trevelyan was standing near the door to the rotunda, and Dorian began to walk in his direction, before he realized with whom Trevelyan was speaking. 

Mother Giselle.

After they’d gotten to Skyhold, she’d attempted to speak to him regarding his beliefs. He’d had little patience for her probing inquiries, when they’d shifted from whether or not he believed in the Maker, to what he believed about Andraste, to what had brought him to the South from the Imperium. Nothing about her inquiries felt genuine, as though she were trying to pry information out of him. He’d had less invasive conversations with Leliana’s agents, or maybe they were just better at disguising their intentions. 

He immediately turned, and walked to the door that led straight up to the library instead, avoiding making eye contact with Trevelyan. _He’s wonderful, truly, but he would rope you into a conversation with that woman faster than he takes your clothes off_. He opened the door, and took one glance over at Trevelyan, who looked troubled. 

_She’s such a sparkling conversationalist. I’m sure she’s regaling him with some miserable tale. Oh well._

He made his way to his warm chair, having devoured the small roll he’d pilfered from the kitchen. He grabbed a book, and began to thumb through the pages. It was a personal favorite, _Mortalitasi: For the Living, the Dead_. He’d read it back in his youth in Tevinter, and it sparked his interest in Necromancy. Maybe if he’d left the book on Trevelyan’s nightstand, he’d have developed an interest in the art. 

_You have to admit, he does make a dashing knight_. He smiled at the thought.

He looked up from his novel, and saw Trevelyan standing in the entryway to his little alcove. His eyes were sad.

“Dorian, there’s a letter you need to see.” His voice was severe.

“A letter? Is it a naughty letter?” Dorian joked, getting up from his chair, his voice light and airy. Time to fix whatever mess that southern cleric made. “A humorous proposal from some Antivan dowager?”

“Not quite. It’s from your father.”

 _And there’s the other shoe. Had to drop sometime, I suppose_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I surprisingly don't have a lot to say about this chapter! It pretty much explains itself.
> 
> Jarreth, WOO BOY. Not happy with those Dorian x Trevelyan rumors spreading around Skyhold.
> 
> Some stuff with Alexius. I liked how that all turned out, actually, in retrospect. I agonized over it for a few days but I think I got it right in the end. 
> 
> I love how all my added, non-canon characters are elves. I need to drag in a dwarf, or a Tal-Vashoth warrior, or something. 
> 
> The next chapter MAY take a bit longer. I need to make a bit of a flowchart. I want to make sure that I'm nailing specific cutscenes and character interactions at very certain parts of the story, and I want to make sure it's do-able in the context of the game. Basically, as close to canon-compliant as possible, save for Trevelyan and Dorian banging each other's brains out, and Trevelyan's weird glowy green sword.
> 
> We'll see just about how powerful that Spirit Blade is at some point, and what makes even stranger.
> 
> Started my new summer internship, loving it so far.
> 
> Thank you again for your comments and Kudos and bookmarks and overall wonderfulness, dear readers. I hope you're enjoying the ride. Things are about to get a little bumpy!
> 
> Crestwood next time for sure. Halward, maybe. Probably. We'll see.
> 
> P.S. - I have changed a SMALL portion of Chapter 2 in order to be more canon complaint, specifically in light of the information revealed about Dorian's earlier life in the Tevinter Imperium before coming south, which was revealed in 'World of Thedas, Vol. 2.' It is only the VERY beginning of Chapter 2, so if you'd like to flip back and re-align yourself with my canon, feel free. It's basically that Elodin helps Dorian to escape from his home in Tevinter. It was a very tiny change, to a very few parts, just to make it seem less like he walked out the door with ease. She saved his ass.


	18. The Village and the Dragon

Trevelyan looked across the War Table. Solas, Cassandra, Blackwall, Varric, and Dorian stood, waiting for final instructions before their departure. They had woken early and eaten breakfast together in the War Room, while Josephine rifled through a list of reports, detailing the Inquisition’s most recent diplomatic victories.

“While Arl Wulff did knowingly ally with the Venatori, he was truly perturbed when he was informed of their intentions. As repentance for his actions, he has donated a generous sum to the Inquisition.” She smiled brightly at the Inquisitor.

“So we just forgive him without further question?” Cullen asked, slightly irritated that they hadn’t just killed the Arl outright.

“He is too useful to us, Commander,” Leliana said. “He has offered to use his connections with the Venatori to pass along false reports.”

Dorian admired Lelilana’s hardened pragmatism. She was unafraid to make the hard decisions that no one else could stomach. While Dorian was staunchly entrenched in the camp of ‘idealistic fools,’ he couldn’t help but appreciate the bard’s cold, calculating tactics. Were she in the Imperium, she could have half the Magisterium under her control with blackmail, and the other half assassinated before they had even attempted to strike at her. 

“Lelilana is right. We have gained a most valuable ally,” Josephine spoken up, “and our influence continues to grow. Cullen, I believe you had some news regarding one of our new recruits?”

“Yes, the Sutherland boy. We’d outfitted him, and he managed to take out some bandits that were stalking our patrol. I know that you’d dismissed him initially, Leliana, but I think the lad showed promise. He returned to Skyhold with the spoils, and another recruit, an elven mage.”

“I spoke with him yesterday,” Trevelyan said. “I encouraged him to continue his training. Anything you can assign him would be helpful.”

_Gabriel. So nurturing. Always seeing the good in everyone around him._ Dorian rolled his eyes.

_You’ve benefitted from that trait, Pavus. You ought to be more appreciative._

“There have been requests for patrols in the same region where he cleared out the bandits. Perhaps we could allow him to extend his service?” Cullen said. 

“Good. Send him out as soon as possible. Like you said, Josie, ‘grow our influence.’” Trevelyan looked over to her, and Josephine nodded her head, half-listening as she scratched words across the parchment in her hand.

“I’ve received word from my agents in Val Colline.” Leliana took an opportunity to give her report. “Ser Barris has succeeded in routing the Venatori from the town, and he and his people have remained to assist in the relief efforts. He is pleased to have an opportunity to give the people a reason to trust the Templars again.”

“I’m happy he’s happy.” Trevelan breathed. “He’s been incredibly even-tempered during our negotiations with the Mages. I was surprised, initially, how reasonable and flexible he was, but I’m thankful for his positive attitude and his patience. Considering how rigid the Order was…”

“It could be that he sees how the rigidity of the Order caused its downfall. The Order had become brittle, and in hindsight, its fracture seemed inevitable.” Cullen said, his voice slightly mournful.

Ser Barris had been a calming presence within the walls of Skyhold. Whatever quarrels that had broken out between the mages and the Templars since their arrival, he had been quick to quell, and he cared little for the petty games of placing blame, instead forcing both parties to acknowledge their part in the fighting. Trevelyan seemed very impressed by him. _And those eyes!_ He’d overheard several hushed conversations amongst small groups, giggling madly over the strapping Templar warrior. Trevelyan had talked about promoting Barris to Knight-Commander of the Templar Order – once the talks between the mages and the Templars had reached their conclusion.

“That’s very true. Whatever the reason, his presence within our walls has been a blessing. Now, on to more pressing affairs: what can we do for Thedas today?”

“We have received word from King Bhelen of Orzammar.” Josephine began, her voice drifting over the sound of her quill on parchment. “He has officially declared his support for the Inquisition. I would advise sending a delegation to Orzammar as soon as possible to cement this alliance.“

You can count me out, Dorian thought. _The sun hardly shines bright enough for my liking in southern Thedas; I’m sure I’d die from lack of exposure hundreds of feet underground._

“I agree. I’m sure they are none too happy with the ancient darkspawn Magister.” Trevelyan said. “This is excellent work, Josephine. I’ve always wanted to see Orzammar, but I bet you already have your delegation selected.”

“I have just the people in mind, Inquisitor.” She smiled, pleased with Trevelyan’s estimation. 

“Very well,” Trevelyan said, somewhat disappointed that he wasn’t on her short list. “Cullen?”

“We’ve received word that Movran the Under has arrived in Tevinter, per your judgment. He and his clan have already staked a claim to a section of land along the Imperial Highway. It does not seem as though they are interested in actively threatening anyone, however, there are some Magisters who are concerned.”

“What do you all recommend?”

“Perhaps we could notify Minrathous? We could let them know that we hope they enjoy our ‘reinforcements’ for their continued war against the Qunari?” Josephine added, in a most sincere tone. Dorian chuckled at the suggestion.

“It is possible to keep Movran’s clan well-supplied without explicit ties to the Inquisition. Their continued presence may unnerve Tevinter.” Leliana added, and Dorian chuckled again. Even though he was still sore about how he was treated for his nationality, he couldn’t help but appreciate their determination to undermine the Imperium. 

“It was a fine jest, Inquisitor, but now it is done. I suggest cutting ties before their presence becomes provocation.” Cullen said, his voice dry and serious.

“Hmmm.” Trevelyan pondered. “As much as I’d love to support Movran, if only for my personal amusement, it could hamper future diplomatic efforts. I think you’re correct, Cullen. A pity, really. Next issue?” He turned to Leliana.

“Actually,” Dorian interrupted, “I have a matter I would like to bring to your attention.”

All the eyes of the room turned on him. He almost drew up a Barrier to shield himself from their piercing looks. 

“By all means,” Trevelyan said, his arm waving to Dorian. 

“There are Venatori mages out there, lurking in the wilderness. This comes as no surprise to you, since you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting one of Corypheus’ minions, but… these particular Venatori have additional significance to myself.”

“And what significance is that?” Leliana asked, her face inscrutable.

“For one, I know them personally,” Dorian replied. “I would call them ‘friends,’ but that would imply I didn’t want them dead. Which I do.” Leliana’s face remained completely unknowable. Dorian sighed. “Since I have an idea of where they might be, thanks to an investigation I began before coming south, I thought we could put our heads together and track them down.”

“And when we do?” Cullen asked.

“I’d imagine they would sneer something at you in Tevene, and you would be forced to kill them. Which makes everyone happy – you for eliminating a potential threat, me for eliminating men and women too stupid and shortsighted to be permitted continued breath. _They_ would be less happy, but who cares about them?” Dorian turned his gaze to Trevelyan, who was smirking at him. “Up to you, my lord Inquisitor.” Trevelyan arched his eyebrows at Dorian in displeasure.

“Gabriel.” He said, his voice stern and instructive. Dorian felt the flush in his cheeks. _Ass._

“My lord, Gabriel.” Dorian replied. Trevelyan rolled his eyes.

“Let us look into this, carefully and quietly,” Leliana interjected, cutting through the tension with expertise. “We do not wish to alert the Venatori to our awareness of their existence.”

“Excellent,” Trevelyan smiled. “Any other concerns?” He looked over the room. All were silent.

“Very well. We’ll be departing for Crestwood shortly.” 

_

 

Dorian moaned lightly as he threw himself onto the rough mattress. _Crestwood is an absolute shithole._ He had no idea why he’d agreed to come along on this particular mission. 

_Endear yourself to the Inquisition, remember?_

_What an awful idea that was._

It was early in the morning. They had arrived in Crestwood in the early afternoon the day prior, and had hurriedly made their way to the small village, met with the Mayor, proceeded to take back Caer Bronach from the bandits who were inhabiting it, opened the dams, made their way into the old mine shafts below Old Crestwood, and sealed the Rift that was causing the undead to emerge from the lake. As they returned to Caer Bronach for the evening, they caught a glimpse of the silvery light of dawn peeking its head over the horizon. _Wonderful_ , he’d thought. _We’ve been running around all night._

And now, they’d returned to the Keep in order to get a much-needed rest. Dorian lay face down, his ass bare against the cool, damp air of the Keep, and waited. He felt the tongue trace the line up his hole, over his spine, and up to his neck. Trevelyan pressed his body against Dorian, his cock planting itself in between Dorian’s cheeks.

“Nothing I can do to convince you?” He said.

“I am positively exhausted.” Dorian moaned. “It would be like fucking a corpse.”

“Yeah, but _your_ corpse.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“It is, now that I think about it.” Trevelyan smiled, before rolling off Dorian, and settling in bed, next to his side. “You have to get under the blanket.”

“Exhausted.” Dorian whined. Trevelyan tugged the blankets out from underneath them, and pulled them over their bodies. He leaned into Dorian’s body, kissing his shoulder. 

“We should probably get some rest, even though I would sleep better after this.” His fingers slid across Dorian’s hole, still slick with Trevelyan’s saliva.

“I haven’t had the chance to shave, or anything,” Dorian exhaled, his mouth melted into his pillow. 

“I like you with a bit of hair,” Trevelyan said, his fingers bristling against the follicles that had formed in between Dorian’s cheeks. It had been nearly a week since they’d left Skyhold, and Dorian hadn’t packed any of his grooming tools. He didn’t think they would be necessary, until Trevelyan practically split him open during their first night on the trip to Crestwood. “It’s different.” His fingers slid down, gently massaging Dorian’s taint. Dorian felt his cock swell up underneath him. _Kaffas._

“Go to sleep!” Dorian moaned lowly, his voice muffled. Trevelyan’s hands slid underneath him, grabbing at his cock. 

“It doesn’t seem like I’d have to do much more convincing.” He pulled gently at Dorian, who responded by inflating to complete fullness. _Kaffas._

“Fine,” Dorian said halfheartedly, in spite of the fact that he felt the lust rise up inside. He wanted to savor every last drop he could squeeze from Trevelyan. 

_It won’t be long before it all comes crashing down._

Trevelyan had promised they would go to meet this family retainer in Redcliffe once they finished their work in Crestwood. Dorian had a creeping feeling, that the secrets he’d tried to keep tucked away would come spilling out all at once, and that would spell the end for whatever magic existed between himself and Trevelyan.

“If you’d prefer, I’d be more than happy to let you fuck me.” Trevelyan said, his cock pressed up against Dorian’s as he jerked them with one hand. 

“No. I’m looking for an excuse to stay on my back and do none of the work.” Trevelyan laughed, and kissed him deeply. They rolled in the sheets, Dorian miraculously finding the energy within himself to pleasure Trevelyan with his hands and mouth, before falling back and allowing Trevelyan to slide inside of him. He was thankful for sensation, as Trevelyan thrust with a tender, slow pace. He reached his hand underneath Trevelyan’s legs, and slipped a finger into Trevelyan’s hole, pushing against his spot.

“One more,” Trevelyan asked politely, and Dorian obliged. “You’re just trying to finish me off quicker.”

“Not quicker, just better.”

And he did. Trevelyan exploded inside of him. Dorian could practically feel the streams of Trevelyan’s orgasm shooting deep within, as his head rolled back in ecstasy, filled with the delight of knowing that he could bring Trevelyan over the edge, _and how._ Trevelyan continued to pump himself into Dorian, his hand working Dorian’s cock, until Dorian erupted, shooting his load all over his chest. A glob landed over his mouth, settling into his mustache. Trevelyan greedily licked it up, and kissed Dorian deeply, before pulling himself out.

“There’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be than next to you.” He said, pulling Dorian close to his body, his cock still hot and sticky. 

“You mean inside of me.”

“I meant what I said.” He kissed the back of Dorian’s head.

“Goodnight, Gabriel.”

“Goodnight, beautiful.”

___

 

Dorian woke up the next morning, finding Trevelyan’s back pressed against his front. He wondered when they’d rearranged themselves into this position. His cock was swollen from sleep, and it pressed up against Trevelyan’s ass. Dorian yawned loudly, and pulled Trevelyan closer. 

Trevelyan smelled of sweat and sleep, something that Dorian had become accustomed to, but still appreciated every time the aroma filled his nose. He just wanted to hold on for a bit longer. He expected this entire family retainer business would be a disaster of epic proportions – his own personal Breach. It would be the same old song and dance: his parents would send some muscle-for-hire fool to drag him back from whatever debauchery he’d been engaging in, and he would either be forced to go willingly, or kicking and screaming. 

This was different, though. No one in the Imperium bothered to stand up for him, especially not the lovers he’d managed to take. They were generally too ashamed; more interested in saving their dignity than saving Dorian from whatever henchman had been sicced on him. He’d spend a month in some gaudy manor in the Tevinter countryside with a man, only to watch him crumble into a sniveling child when his parents’ henchman threatened to expose his _deviancy_. Dorian could hardly blame them for wanting to preserve their good name, even if he had no qualms about bringing shame upon himself. But Trevelyan would fight. He would cut down anyone in his path. And then he’d start asking questions.

Questions Dorian didn’t want to answer.

He rubbed his nose against the silvery-blonde waves that spilled out in front of him. _Nothing ever lasts_ , he reminded himself. How would he explain his life to Trevelyan, the demons that had plagued him, the drunken nights, the desperate trysts, his complete and utter failure to do anything of meaning with his life? Would Trevelyan look at him differently? 

_Maybe he wouldn’t care._

Dorian stopped that though before it caught on in his mind. _Of course he will care. You tore through Tevinter, squandering any good will that you might have earned by taking advantage of the kindness of others, and spat upon their hospitality, all for your own selfishness. He’ll look at you and know that it will only be a matter of time before you do the same here._

Trevelyan stirred in his arms, and rolled around slowly to face him. His eyes were heavy with sleep, squinting in the darkness, as he opened them to look upon Dorian. Dorian saw the crinkles form in the corners, and felt as though he might die, once Trevelyan stopped giving him that look, as if those eyes had become his sustenance. Trevelyan moved his head forward, nuzzling his nose against Dorian’s, wrapping his arm around Dorian’s waist and snaking his leg between Dorian’s. He closed his eyes and sunk into his pillow.

“I’m not quite ready to stop dreaming just yet.” He said.

_Neither am I._

___

 

They sat down for breakfast on the top level of Caer Bronach, seated near a beautiful statue of an owl, its wings unfurled as though it were about to take flight. Leliana’s scouts had spared no time in throwing the Inquisition’s banners over the battlements, and now peppered the keep, hastily making their way across the ramparts, hands filled with parchments and scrolls and ravens. 

They ate in relative silence. Dorian watched as Blackwall picked the crumbs out of his beard, and tried not to be too visibly disgusted. He’d apologized to the man for his actions the night that Haven was destroyed, about a week after they’d reached Skyhold. He’d swallowed hard and bit his lip, knowing that it would be an unpleasant conversation.

_I would like to apologize for the way I treated you that night in the valley, Blackwall. It was unworthy_ , he’d offered.

_An apology? To a dirty commoner like me?_ Blackwall stood, unimpressed. Dorian desperately attempted to prevent his lips from pursing. 

_Regardless of your station, I am admitting that it was in poor form for me to treat you in such a manner._

_That’s how your kind treats everyone._

_I beg your pardon? My kind?_ Dorian’s tone was spiraling quickly into irritation. 

_Nobles, in your silks and velvets, who are good for two things: talking, and judging._

Dorian took a deep breath. _I only came here to apologize. I’m not asking that we spend our time together, braiding each other’s hair._

_No worry of that._

_Excellent._ He’d turned on his heel and left. Moron, he’d thought to himself.

Varric had a piece of bread in one hand, and a quill in another, which flew across the paper in his lap, before he’d take a pause, scratch something out, and consider the page for another few moments. Cassandra peeked over his shoulder like some sort of nosy Chantry sister. 

“What are you writing, Varric?” Trevelyan asked between bites.

“The next volume of _Swords and Shields_ ,” he said, before his quill resumed its work. Cassandra’s eyes widened down at the pages, before turning to Trevelyan with an unpleasant look in her eyes, accented by her sharp brows. He’d caught her reading the latest volume the day before they left for Crestwood, and apparently, she’d made him promise not to breathe a word of her guilty pleasure to the dwarf. 

Trevelyan, of course, did not listen. 

“I’m having a rough go of it, though,” Varric continued. “I’m not sure where to take these characters. I may just scrap the series entirely.”

Cassandra tried desperately to maintain her composure, but Dorian could practically feel the disappointment leaking out of her. He tried not to laugh, knowing that Varric was toying with Cassandra, a mild form of payback for their spat after Hawke had arrived at Skyhold. 

Today, they would be meeting with Hawke, and with the Warden, Stroud, who had information about Corypheus and the disappearance of the Orlesian and Ferelden Wardens. He hoped that the information would give them a more solid lead to follow – they knew that Corypheus was planning on raising a demon army and assassinating Empress Celene, but he’d managed to keep his tracks hidden, and not even Leliana could seem to track down where he was amassing his hordes of demons, or when he planned to strike the Orlesian Empress. 

“Master Pavus?” One of the scouts stepped in front of him, and handed him a letter. “From Sister Nightingale.” 

“Thank you,” Dorian said, his mouth half-full. He took the letter from the scout, and unfurled it. It was covered in a tight, delicate script, hastily written but exceptionally neat. 

_D – your leads were effective. The Inquisition found several locations where these Venatori could be hiding – advance camps, purpose unknown. You may deal with these mages, if you please – L_

A short list of locations followed. _Good._

“Has Sister Nightingale managed to track the Venatori you had mentioned?” Solas asked.

“It seems as though she has. I can’t wait to see them again, and after so long. Pity the reunion will be most unpleasant. For them, I mean.” Dorian said, tucking the paper into his robes. Solas smiled. _For once._

“All right then, how much longer does everyone need before we depart for the day?” Trevelyan asked.

“I’m almost finished with this chapter,” Varric said, the words coming out of his mouth slowly, as his quill spilled ink across the page. “… _And_ , done!” 

“Excellent. Gather what you need. Hopefully, we’ll be back before sunset.” 

___

 

They strode through the seemingly empty hills to the east of Crestwood, watching the druffalo graze aimlessly throughout the fields. Dorian was happy for the leisurely pace, after the day’s events. 

They’d stopped first at the Mayor’s home, only to find that he’d vanished into the stormy night, a letter of confession sitting on his desk. A quiet sadness descended over the group, the horror of having their suspicions confirmed in writing. 

_All those people, drowning in the mines_. Trevelyan had said, his voice somber. _Justice must be served._

They found one of Leliana’s scouts poking through the Village, and Trevelyan handed him the note, giving him a moment to scan its contents. 

_Find him, and bring him to Skyhold to face judgment._

The scout had nodded and quickly vanished in the direction of Caer Bronach, to enlist the aid of his fellow agents.

They’d proceeded to the east, in an attempt to find the Smuggler’s Cave – in which Hawke claimed the Grey Warden would be hiding – and came across a smattering of Red Templars and Venatori mages. Dorian had believed they’d had the battle handily won, until one of their number appeared out of thin air, its arms carved down into sharp points. It leapt at Trevelyan, sinking its lyrium blades into Trevelyan’s shoulder. Trevelyan screamed, sinking to his knees, as the beast made to bury its blade in the back of his neck. Dorian had spun around and launched a particularly volatile blast of Chain Lightning at the monster. Trevelyan took the opportunity to summon his Spirit Blade and slash through the beast’s head, as though it were butter. It fell to the ground, its limbs twitching eerily as the electric current pulsed through it.

_Thank you_ , Trevelyan had gasped, as Dorian rushed to his side, torrents of healing magic pouring into the open wounds, which had already stained his robes a dark red. 

_Of course_ , Dorian had responded. 

They finished off the remainder of the enemies, and proceeded onward. They were eventually greeted by Marian Hawke’s figure, standing in the mouth of a cave. She stood, her arms folded, tilting her head slightly when she realized who was approaching, her blue eyes twinkling in the sun. Trevelyan waved his hand above his head, the mark glowing green, and Hawke chuckled in recognition, closing her eyes and bucking her head back in amusement. She turned and motioned for Trevelyan to follow.

Dorian was hardly surprised when the Warden Stroud drew his weapon on Trevelyan, his blade pointed eagerly at Trevelyan’s throat. When they’d first arrived in Crestwood, they had encountered Wardens who were looking for their supposedly traitorous comrade-in-arms. _One can never be too careful, when you’re the lone rebel surrounded by madmen._ It almost reminded Dorian of home. Stroud confirmed that all the Wardens of Ferelden and Orlais had begun to hear the Calling, the sign that the taint of the Blight would soon take them, and that in a last-ditch attempt to prevent future Blights, Warden-Commander Clarel had turned to blood magic and demon summoning, so the Wardens might lead a final assault on the darkspawn in the Deep Roads. 

_And they’d accused Stroud of going renegade. At least Stroud had the sense to protest. Summoning bloody demons. Kaffas. You’d swear they were being controlled by Corypheus._

Which was, in fact, Stroud’s theory – that Corypheus was inducing some sort of false Calling to spur the Wardens into action to drive them into his waiting arms, that he, once again, was the shadowy hand pulling the strings. 

Dorian had kept an eye on their own Warden, Blackwall, sneaking a gaze from time to time at the man who, by all accounts, should be experiencing the same Calling the rest of the Wardens were. He listened intently to Stroud, his gaze cast down at the realization that his comrades had been so easily duped, and into such drastic action. It all seemed quite strange to Dorian – _Should this come as a surprise to him? Hasn’t he been hearing the Calling as well?_

_And they accuse the Tevinter of being suspicious. You’re just an easy target. Varric’s a proven liar, Solas is a complete mystery, and Warden Blackwall failed to disappear with the rest of his lot._

_Kaffas._

They’d left the cave together. Stroud had said that there was word that Wardens had begun to gather at an ancient Tevinter ritual tower in the Western Approach. He promised that he would send a message once he’d been able to confirm the reports, and Trevelyan swore his aid in investigating, once he received word. Hawke had decided to travel with Stroud, and bade the group a fond farewell.

“It was easier when it was just one city going to hell, right, Varric?” She’d joked. He laughed in response. “Take care, Cassandra. I know how much you’ll miss me.” She turned to Trevelyan. “Farewell, Inquisitor. You’ve got your work cut out for you.” Her eyes traveled over to Dorian, and she smirked. 

“ _What relationship?!_ ” She practically screamed at him, laughing heartily at her own joke. Varric chuckled behind her. Dorian was positively mortified. Hawke walked up to him, and slapped him on the arm. “You’re alright, for a Tevinter.” She turned to Varric. “Don’t tell Fenris I said that.” _The brooding elf, with those lyrium tattoos._ Dorian had been most curious about the man, after having read Tales of the Champion, but realized that getting close enough to him to see the lyrium markings up close would probably result in a blade to the gut. 

“My word is bond.” Varric responded.

“At least to me, it is.” She responded, before waving flippantly and trotting off to catch up with Stroud, her raven locks trailing behind her. 

“Why does she keep repeating that?” Trevelyan asked, befuddled.

“One would assume that she’s been reading too many of those things that Varric generously describes as ‘novels.’” Dorian snorted, turning to walk away, praying mightily that his deflection would succeed.

“Now, now, Sparkler,” Varric started, “you’re only saying that because you’re jealous.”

“What exactly would I be jealous of, Varric? Your stature? I’m speaking both physically, and of your standing in the literary world.” He continued his march forward. Trevelyan followed after him. 

“I’ve got a couple of bestsellers under my belt,” Varric said. “That’s a couple more than you, Sparkler.”

“How right you are, Varric. I’m positively dripping with envy. Were it only that I’d written _Swords and Shields_ with my own hand.” Cassandra bristled silently to Dorian’s side, Trevelyan chuckling quietly behind him. 

They had proceeded along the edge of a steep hill, toward the top of an embankment, staring out over the fields below them, when they heard the roar echo across the hilly landscape. They looked down, and perched on top of a precariously damaged tower was the dragon that had emerged after they’d opened the dam. _Kaffas._ Dorian waited patiently for the inevitable.

“Come on. We’re off to slay the dragon.” Trevelyan muttered. Wonderful. Dorian looked over at Trevelyan’s shoulder, the tears in his fabric revealing the still-tender flesh where he’d been attacked earlier in the day. 

“A Northern Hunter, I believe,” Blackwall called out, as they began their march down the steep slope.

“Any idea what it’ll spit at us?” Varric asked. The dragon roared in the distanced, and they all watched as a giant, purple orb shot toward an unassuming druffalo, who was killed on contact. 

“If he didn’t before, he does now,” Cassandra added grimly.

“Must we go to fight the dragon?” Dorian whined. “The Iron Bull will be terribly disappointed he wasn’t allowed to join in the fun.”

“No point in delaying the inevitable. Besides, you heard Judith. It’s become a nuisance.” Trevelyan said, turning back to smile at Dorian, his eyes playing at disappointment. _Maker, he is giddy. I can just picture it now. ‘We slayed a dragon!’_

The dragon finally caught sight of the group. It roared into flight, launching a massive bolt at them, which they all managed to dodge with relative ease. Dorian and Solas pulled up barriers around the small squad.

“Cassandra and Solas, on the front left leg. Blackwall and Varric, on the right. Dorian and I will each handle the back legs.” Trevelyan shouted, as the dragon began its descent. “If we can knock it off its feet-“ BOOM! The dragon crashed into the ground, “- we might be able to finish it off!” His words were dampened by the dragon’s bellow. “Go!”

They all moved into formation, Cassandra and Blackwall charging at the beast, who reared its head back and unleashed a violent torrent of lightning at the pair. They ducked behind their shields, pushing forward against the force. Trevelyan had arched behind it, and Dorian blasted forward underneath the beast in a Fade Step. He ducked out from under its stomach and blasted its hind leg with a Walking Bomb. Trevelyan took the other leg, slashing violently with his Spirit Blade, as it sunk into the dragon’s flesh. His little assault didn’t go unnoticed, and the dragon picked up its back foot and kicked violently toward Trevelyan.

Instead of being blown back under the crushing weight, Trevelyan caught the foot with his blade. Dorian, who had busied himself launching flames at the beast’s other leg, quickly snapped his fingers, and watching as the dragon’s limb shuddered and popped violently, chunks of flesh blowing out from its thigh, where the bomb had erupted. The creature sunk down, unable to support itself.

_Excellent._

Cassandra and Blackwall had made it to the front legs, slashing eagerly at the beast, but the dragon quickly got back up and leapt across the battlefield, toward Varric, who ran as fast as his stubby legs could carry him to avoid being squished. Dorian watched as Solas pulled a Barrier over the dwarf in case he couldn’t make it fast enough. Luckily, Varric avoided being crushed, leaping in an arc and firing a hail of arrows into its side, just as the dragon bowed its head down.

They all started their sprint toward the beast, when Dorian began to feel the Fade pull underneath him, like a tidal pool swirling around his feet. 

_That’s not Trevelyan’s barrier._

He looked down, and saw the lightning crackle below him in a small circle. His eyes traveled across the field, and saw the same underneath each and every one of them, as the dragon reared back into the air on its hind legs. 

“ _Dispel!_ ” Dorian screamed, as he flicked his staff outward, watching the violet crackling underneath him disappear. Trevelyan and Solas had managed to follow his lead just as the dragon’s front legs slammed into the ground.

The static charge erupted out from underneath Blackwall and Cassandra’s feet, and Dorian watched as the waves of lightning connected and snapped back, zapping the pair. They cried out as the electricity coursed through their bodies. 

_Shit._

Dorian looked to see if he could gather what the trick behind this magic was – Varric’s tiny circle of sparks had also shot outward, but he was standing alone, far away from the others. Dorian looked back to Cassandra and Blackwall, and noticed that the magic crackling underneath them was intertwined – the outer edges of the circles sparking madly as they came into contact with each other. 

The dragon drew its head back, opening its horrendous maw wide, as violent purple light built in the back of its throat.

_Maker._

“Seeker!” Solas shouted. “Roll away from Blackwall!” Thankfully, the elf had noticed the phenomenon, and had the sense to do something about it. 

Dorian watched as Cassandra managed to break free, throwing herself across the field, separating herself from Blackwall’s circle, and immediately, the electricity stopped coursing through their bodies. The dragon roared, and the purple light in the back of its throat blasted forward, ripping through the air toward Blackwall. Dorian tried desperately to pull up a barrier, but it was too late.

He watched as the purple light tore across the battlefield, as if time had slowed, until it hit the Fade-green Blade that had materialized in front of Blackwall, splitting the thunderous breath in twain. _Trevelyan?_

Trevelyan had leapt in front of Blackwall, his Spirit Blade parting through the waves of thunder that surged forth from the dragon’s mouth. He charged forward, his blade deflecting the breath, splitting a path toward the beast. _But how?_ Dorian felt the Fade whirling around Trevelyan. _Is that… his Barrier?_ The Knight Enchanter could stand in the front lines of battle, Dorian had learned, because their Barriers were nigh impenetrable. He’d discussed it with Vivienne, who’d explained that such techniques took much time and dedication to master – forging a Barrier with a will of solid steel was no simple task, assuredly – but again, Trevelyan defied expectations. 

Dorian watched as the dragon’s head was rocked by an explosion – Varric had planted an Explosive Shot right in the side of its skull, blowing its head to one side and disrupting its assault. Cassandra took the opportunity to charge forward and bury her blade in the dragon’s neck, coating herself in blood as she roared across the battlefield. Solas was quick to Blackwall’s side with a healing spell, and Dorian covered the three in a barrier.

The dragon roared violently as the thick blood seeped from its veins. Blackwall charged forward to assault the other front leg. The dragon’s head was trained on Trevelyan, who stood within striking range of its fangs, the ethereal blade glinting Fade green in the golden light of the afternoon sun. The monster turned quickly to swipe Cassandra away, before snapping forward at Trevelyan, who Fade Stepped underneath its head. Dorian couldn’t help but notice the green streak trailing along the underside of the dragon’s throat.

Of course, when one Fade Stepped, everything they wanted to hold on to dissipated with them: clothing, potions, weapons, re-materializing alongside your own body once you reemerged in the physical world. It took time and skill to master the technique – he’d heard a number of horror stories about mages performing the spell for the first time and reappearing completely nude. And certainly, talented mages were able to make the most of their Step by turning the trail into an icy blast, but that was the most you could hope for. 

Trevelyan, however, had managed to maintain the physical integrity of his blade as it tore through the throat of the dragon, whose blood gushed rapidly from its neck in violent scarlet torrents. The dragon gurgled angrily, unable to roar, its pathetic attempts reduced to nothing but wet, sick blubbering. It slumped over on its side, and Trevelyan stabbed it once more, through the heart. It roiled weakly, its legs scratching at the air, its wings fluttering delicately, before all the motion ceased and it slumped sadly into the ground, dead. 

Dorian couldn’t help but pity the creature, in spite of the fact that it would have handily killed each one of them.

“Is everyone all right?” Cassandra called across the battlefield. They all gathered together near the maw of the beast. Trevelyan’s hand skimmed along its jawline, stroking gently at the hardened scales. Its eyes had rolled back into its head, and its tongue dangled out the side of its mouth.

“How sad,” Trevelyan murmured. “It’s so beautiful.” He patted at the corpse without a thought. 

“Indeed. They are magnificent creatures,” Solas stepped alongside Trevelyan. Trevelyan looked at the elf, his eyes somber, and nodded.

“I suppose we should have Leliana’s scouts come down here – I’m sure we could make use of the body, so that its death isn’t a total waste.” Trevelyan had turned his gaze back to face of the beast.

“Gabriel, I saw you, slicing through its neck with your Spirit Blade, as you Fade Stepped underneath its throat. How, exactly, did you manage that feat?” Dorian asked. 

“To be honest, I’m not quite sure. I’ve never tried that before today. Maybe it’s just the nature of the Blade? Or maybe it’s the Anchor,” he sighed. “I’ll talk to Commander Helaine when we return to Skyhold.” 

“We’ve cleared out Crestwood, it appears,” Blackwall said, his arms folded across his chest. “Shall we return to Caer Bronach for the evening?”

Trevelyan considered it for a moment. “Yes, I think that would be best. We’ll rest up before we leave tomorrow.” Dorian felt his stomach drop. He cleared his throat, and Trevelyan looked over to him with sad eyes.

“Are we still heading to the Hinterlands?” Varric asked.

“Yes. Blackwall and Solas will return to Skyhold, and you, Cassandra, and I will head south. For now, let’s return to the Keep for the evening.”

They returned to the Keep, and several of Leliana’s agents sped off toward the dragon’s corpse, so that they might hack it to pieces and drag its remnants back to the Keep. Trevelyan made some mention of wanting to fashion some armor out of its scales and bones, and Dorian joked about him living up to the barbarian stereotypes, even though he was distracted by other thoughts.

_Even here, far outside the reach of Father’s influence, I am still within his grasp. I wonder how bloody all this business with the ‘family retainer’ will be?_

_You can’t hide forever, Pavus. You knew that._

They retired to one of the rooms in the Keep for the evening. Trevelyan lay down on his back, pulling Dorian into the nook between his chest and his arm. Dorian rested his head on Trevelyan’s chest, gazing up at his face. Trevelyan leaned down and kissed him gently on the forehead. 

“Everything will be all right. I promise,” he whispered, his hand rubbing Dorian’s back. 

_If only that were true._

___

 

They’d arrived in Redcliffe in the late afternoon, walking through the tranquil village as silent as could be. No one had said a word for hours, it had seemed. They’d spent their morning killing one of the Venatori that Leliana had managed to track down. They’d managed to slaughter Mistress Caelina the day prior, lurking in the Hafter’s Woods. Dorian had had the extreme displeasure of meeting her at several parties in Minrathous, watching her pathetic attempts to curry favor with Magisters that far outclassed her. Now, staves drawn at the ready, she taunted Dorian for betraying his country, declaring that she would help Corypheus build a new Tevinter on the bones of defectors like him, before threatening to burn his ‘pretty face’ to a crisp. 

Trevelyan stabbed her in the stomach, twisting the Spirit Blade deep into her gut. Blood spurted out of her mouth, trailing over her lips, as she gasped for air, her lungs failing her.

“Call him a traitor all you want, but I’d never let you touch that face.” 

They’d found Magister Vespasianus north of Dennet’s Farm, and Maker, had he grown. Dorian recalled the nights they’d spent together, tucked away in his family’s manor, where they’d fucked day and night for what felt like weeks. Dorian had perpetually outmatched the man – in physicality, magical prowess, and stamina – but had been more than happy to watch the lithe body underneath him squirm as he brought him to orgasm again and again. Now, standing with his knees crouched, his shoulders broad and wide, Dorian wondered what had happened in all the time they hadn’t seen each other – after another set of ‘family retainers’ had busted the door to Vespasianus’ bedroom down, catching the redheaded Magister and Dorian _in flagrante delicto._

_Blood magic, probably. No way that skinny brat would have been able to put on that much muscle naturally._

Dorian thought better of letting Trevelyan know exactly how intimately he had been acquainted with Vespasianus’ body, not that it was the same body that stood before him now. It mattered not, when Varric’s arrow went sailing through his eye. 

_No tragic loss. They were the muddiest brown I’d ever seen._

Dorian stood over the corpse, and for a moment regretted the path his former partner had taken. _You were charming, in your own way, and maybe you might have lived, had you not been such an idiot. Kaffas._

“How did you know him?” Trevelyan asked, suddenly at Dorian’s side.

“Old family friend.” Dorian lied. 

“Uh-huh.” Trevelyan’s hand lashed out, and Vespasianus’s body was consumed by flames. “ _Go in peace to the Maker’s side_ and whatnot.” Trevelyan said. Dorian arched an eyebrow at him. “What? Even Venatori deserve a prayer and a pyre.”

Some part of Dorian appreciated that Trevelyan was a little bit jealous, that he grabbed Dorian’s waist a little bit tighter when he felt threatened. Of course, that kind of behavior could wear thin when applied with a heavy hand, but it never felt like Trevelyan was strangling the life from his lungs in an attempt to hang on. Really, it just seemed as though Trevelyan wanted to remind Dorian that he was there. The thought made Dorian nauseous. _It won’t be much longer until he’s not there anymore._

Dorian had rolled his eyes, and walked away, Trevelyan close behind him.

“Redcliffe?” Trevelyan had asked quietly.

“Redcliffe,” Dorian responded, his voice breathy and defeated. _No point in dragging this charade out any longer._

Dorian caught sight of The Gull and Lantern in the distance, and swallowed hard. Redcliffe had become a strange central hub for him during his time in the Inquisition. It was where he’d helped to foil the Venatori’s plot. It was where he’d said his final farewells to Felix on the docks. It was where he had met Trevelyan. 

He sighed. Looking around, all of it seemed like a lifetime ago. There was no hint that the mages had ever populated the quiet village, no trace of the time that the Arl had been forced from his castle by his former mentor, no lingering rifts that warped space and time around them. Everything had gone back to normal, the villagers chatting peacefully as they marched along the road, arms laden with produce or goods purchased from the vendors that lined the streets. It was happy and peaceful, and Dorian wanted nothing more than to melt into that crowd and pretend to be happy and peaceful with them. _Just a little longer._

Dorian had acclimated to a new version of normal – A normal that involved the Inquisitor pulling desperately at his naked body, in a castle on a mountaintop leagues away from any place he’d ever called home. Maybe, like Redcliffe, after this, he could return to normal – that new normal – as if nothing had happened at all.

_Fat chance, Pavus._

He stopped at the entrance to the Tavern. It was eerily quiet. 

“Varric, I want you to head around back, in case anything should happen. There’s a door leading out the kitchen. Be stealthy. That means no talking.” Trevelyan urged, and Varric nodded and complied. “Cassandra? Take the side, under the windows on the upper floor.” She marched off, but not before casting one final gaze at Dorian. She looked at him with… _sympathy?!_

_I never thought I’d see the day._

“Are you ready?” Trevelyan asked, his hand on Dorian’s shoulder.

“I suppose so,” Dorian moaned quietly. 

He pulled Dorian’s face close, and kissed him on the lips. 

“I’m right here.” Trevelyan said, squeezing his hand.

“Thank you,” Dorian murmured.

Dorian opened the door to the empty tavern. He walked through, and gazed around at the tables and chairs that were filled by no one at all. Nothing seemed right. He’d half expected a trap to spring up underneath his feet, so that he might be spirited away to Qarinus once more. 

“Uh-oh. Nobody’s here. This doesn’t bode well,” he said to no one in particular, a slight quaver in his voice. He heard the scrape of footsteps across the stone floors.

“Dorian.”

He turned, and out of the shadows emerged the icon of his ire. He felt the anger bubble up inside of his stomach. All the sins of his past twisted up inside of him, and all the old wounds that he thought had scabbed over were immediately picked fresh, his mind and his heart raw with fury. The voice had said his name the way he’d heard it a million times before. Not in the mellifluous, loving tone of the Inquisitor, but the patronizing, chastising tone that only someone who’d watched you grow from infancy could master.

Dorian’s brows furrowed when he stepped into the light, his robes trailing behind him, his dark silver hair slicked back, exposing his wrinkled, tanned forehead. He’d gazed at this face a million times, and each time, it only made him more furious. The family retainer was a ruse, another smokescreen, another pathetic attempt to corral the recalcitrant son into obedience. 

_Not this time._

Dorian opened his mouth, his teeth clenched tightly, as his lips pulled the sound of the word from his throat.

“Father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT A WEEK IT'S BEEN.
> 
> Work is crazy. I forgot that work can be crazy. But it's good! I'm glad to be doing something that isn't being a student. 
> 
> Summer's in full swing and I couldn't be happier. Shorts and sandals for everyone. 
> 
> So this chapter was kind of a little breather before Halward. I'm actually writing the Halward encounter, which I had debated on NOT doing, because I'm not sure I quite understand where Halward is coming from. I kind of had an epiphany, and then it made things better, so I hope it's a very emotional chapter. In the grand words of Japanese video game developers, "Please look forward to it."
> 
> The dragon fight also felt a little quick to me, but I didn't want it to drag on (GET IT?!) for six pages. Kind of unnecessary. IDK, I like a tight fight sequence. Dragons are powerful, but it's also six-on-one. And Trevelyan is one of those six, and he's got that wonky Spirit Blade that just does crazy shit. That dragon stood no chance.
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER: Halward. Dorian. Emotions. Feelings. Return to Skyhold. More Feelings. Drunkenness. And EVEN MORE FEELINGS. Brace yourselves. 
> 
> And, again, as always, THANK YOU for the wonderful comments, the kudos, the subscriptions, the bookmarks, and all the positive vibes in general. My corner of the universe has been pretty awesome lately, so I'm blaming all of you for that. XOXO.


	19. The Boy and His Father

Trevelyan nodded at Dorian politely, but his eyes were full of concern as he turned to walk out the door. He hovered for a minute, in the doorway, his gaze cast back at Dorian, the orange light of the evening streaming through the door behind him, surrounding him in the light of dusk, darkening his features. Dorian could see the Fade-green irises gazing at him intently, before the eyes closed and turned away, closing the door behind him.

_Maker, take me._

He’d been relatively quiet during the entire affair, only interjecting when absolutely necessary. 

When Dorian had revealed that his Father had planned on changing him with a blood magic ritual, Trevelyan looked positively furious. His hand crackled violet with electricity, as though he’d intended to strike out at Halward, and Dorian wasn’t quite sure he would have stopped him. After everything his Father had planned to do to him, surely, a little magic fired off in his direction wouldn’t have been unwarranted.

But then again, Trevelyan had encouraged him to stay. _You’ll never forgive yourself_ , he’d said, as though he knew exactly what Dorian would be thinking. But Dorian hadn’t been thinking about forgiving himself, not at all. He’d been thinking how his Father had the audacity to come down to the ass-end of Thedas, creating this farcical tale of a family retainer to get him to show his face, to have this confrontation here, of all places. 

_The gall._

Trevelyan had exited the tavern graciously, bowing his head slightly toward Halward. _I’m sure meeting the parents has never been quite this awkward_ , Dorian had thought, as Trevelyan moved toward the door. Trevelyan eyed Halward up and down once more, and turned to Dorian.

“I will be right behind this door. If anything happens –“

“It won’t.” Dorian replied.

“– I will be here.” He smiled weakly at Dorian, as much as he could muster, given the circumstances. How wonderful he was. _Maybe, just maybe, it all won’t go to shit for once._

Dorian turned back to the bar, and made his way behind the counter, grabbing at the bottles.

“I’m assuming you still take your whiskey straight?” Dorian asked, as though this were the most natural conversation in the world. As though everything between them was fine, and always had been. Brushing everything under the rug, as had been the way of things ever since Dorian could remember. He wanted to vomit.

“Dorian,” Halward’s voice rang out, that same, scolding tone to which Dorian had long since grown numb. “Are you still attempting to drink your problems away?”

“No, Father,” Dorian fumed, trying to calm himself. _Don’t leave it like this_ , Trevelyan had said. “But if ever there was a time for a glass, it would be now.”

He poured out the glasses, and placed them on the bar in front of him. He walked around, and sat on a stool. Halward moved and took a seat on the stool next to him. 

“You learned that habit from your mother, and you have seen just how well it has helped her.”

“Accusing me of turning into Mother, are you now?” Dorian asked, staring into his glass. He felt his stomach roll inside of him. 

“I would never be so callous.” Halward said. Dorian was transported back to his childhood, to the interactions between his parents, however scant they had might have been. In spite of the fact that Halward and Aquinea both loathed each other with an equal ferocity, his Father had always attempted to treat his Mother with some small measure of kindness, keeping himself in a state of perpetual, restrained calm. His Mother felt no such obligation to return the favor, whether it was by sinking her pointed jabs into the side of his Father’s ego, or by ignoring him in favor of whatever bottle was in her immediate vicinity. 

Dorian supposed he’d learned his spite from her. 

The only subject on which they’d seemed to agree was what a tragic disappointment their rebellious son was. Each time Dorian would end up on their doorstep, shipped back from the most recent Circle he’d been expelled from, they would immediately cease their bickering for the sake of turning their ire towards their unrepentant heir apparent, with the coordinated expertise that could only be attributed to their mutual disdain for the child who perpetually flouted all the hopes and dreams they once had for their ‘little future Archon.’

“Really, now?” Dorian asked, swirling the liquor around in his glass, his voice dipping down into anger. “And that blood magic ritual you were planning, that wasn’t callous? Or is that a step below comparing me to Mother?” 

Halward sighed, and took a deep drink of his glass. “Whatever happened to the little boy, who would slip into my study and curl up in my lap?”

Dorian felt the tears well up in his eyes, in spite of the fact that he wanted nothing more than to smash his glass into the side of his father’s head. _How dare he_. He stood, peeking around the doorway to his father’s study, lurking in the shadows. His tiny hands carefully wrapped around the edges of the doorframe, his eyes just barely keeping his Father in sight. 

_I know you are there, Dorian_. He’d frowned at his failure to keep his presence a secret. _Come in_. Dorian obeyed, gliding across the floor to his father’s side, where he picked him up and placed Dorian into his lap. 

He couldn’t have been much older than five. He gazed up into the face of his father, his eyes shining down at him. Dorian was young, and at the time, he couldn’t comprehend what sparkled just behind the dark brown hue, but it was love. Pure and true, unadulterated by his future mistakes, full of all the pride and joy that Halward reserved for his son, his beloved son, all the pride that would go to waste in a few short years’ time. 

Young Dorian smiled at his father. Present Dorian felt the tears slide down his cheeks. 

_Come, now. Let me tell you the tale of Archon Darinius once more._

“He’s long since gone,” Dorian managed to squeak out, in spite of the sadness that choked at his throat. “I’m all you have left. Sorry it turned out so poorly for you. I sincerely apologize that you and mother couldn’t stand each other for long enough to pump out another heir.” 

“Dorian…” Halward started.

“You have no right to take that tone with me, after everything you’ve done.” Dorian growled, turning to his father for the first time they’d sat down at the bar. Halward’s eyes were wet, the same tears streaming down his cheeks. 

Dorian wanted nothing more than to be that little boy again, to catch hold of the innocence he’d so quickly abandoned, to love and be loved without all the expectations upon which that affection was now predicated; to curl up in his Father’s lap and listen to the stories of Tevinter’s former glory and to relive his own: the glory of being loved, without being bound. 

Recapturing the past proved impossible. He was a man, an equal to his Father, no longer a child that ought to be coddled. 

_I hate him. For this. For everything. He has no reason to cry._

“Why?!” Dorian was suddenly frothing with rage. “You are a _monster_! The lengths you would have gone to, all to get what you wanted! You would have sacrificed me, for your own ambition!” Halward sat, his eyes trained on the glass in his hand, unmoved by Dorian’s tirade. “No! You do not get to sit there and say nothing. What justification could you possibly have had?!” He breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling, his throat constricted by the poisonous mix of fury and sorrow. Halward sat, still, unmoving. Dorian stared at him, waiting for a word, a motion, _anything_ other than his thumb rubbing the side of his glass. “I may have been an utter disappointment, but you had no right! What you would have done! The lengths to which you would have gone!” 

“Dorian…” That same tone again. Dorian grabbed his glass, and threw it clean across the bar, watching it smash into the wall and shatter into a million fragments. 

“ _That is what you did to me!_ ” Dorian shouted, his finger jabbing angrily at the shards on the floor, his voice hoarse and uncontrollable as the sobs burst forth. “That… is what…”

He felt his father’s arms wrap over his shoulders, pulling him into an embrace. “You are right.” Halward whispered, his hand running along the back of Dorian’s head. “You are right.” Dorian couldn’t help his arms, as they wrapped around his Father’s waist, his head sunk into his father’s shoulder, as the hot tears soaked his father’s robes. He hated his father for what he’d done, and yet, he loved him. He resented Halward’s expectations but he reveled in his adoration. It was all a mess of contradictions, and he’d never be able to sort it out, not in this lifetime or the next. 

Halward pulled away, and Dorian let go. Clinging to his Father’s waist just wouldn’t do, anymore. He looked into his Father’s eyes, the tears still perched upon their corners, as he frowned. 

“Please, forgive me, Dorian,” Halward pleaded.

“It was unforgivable.” Dorian said, his harsh tone undercut by the tears that still streamed down his face.

“You have a heart as big as the borders of the Imperium at its height. Surely, there is room enough to find even a shred of forgiveness, for a man who has realized the error of his ways.” Halward looked up at Dorian. 

“It’s not big enough,” Dorian protested. “You can’t hope to wave your hand and magic all this away.”

“Please, Dorian,” He persisted. “Do not let your pride get in the way.” 

“I am not you, Father,” Dorian spat. “I would never have done what you planned to do.”

“Dorian, we are more alike than you know. We are both victims of our own hubris. But I have seen how it has clouded my judgment. It is why I have come here, to beg your forgiveness. I have made so many mistakes. Be wise, and learn from them, so that you are not doomed to repeat them yourself.”

Dorian stood there, a bundle of raw emotion scratching inside of him, clamoring to escape his throat. He tried desperately to find the words, so that he might expunge the pain, but he couldn’t find anything else to say. If he opened his mouth, all he’d be able to do was wail meaninglessly, his own frustration adding to the discord roiling within him. _Kaffas!_ He couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. He hated his father, for putting him in the position, for reducing him to nothingness the way only he could. It was infuriating. _Why? WHY?!_

“Dorian, please,” Halward asked, his voice weary and hoarse, as his hands reached out for Dorian, gently grabbing his shoulders. “I love you, my son.”

Dorian collapsed once more into his arms. 

_I might never forgive you, Father, but I love you._

___

 

Dorian had no desire to tarry, once he’d finished his conversation with his Father. He’d refused the Magister’s offer to spend the night in the rooms above the tavern, opting to make haste in returning to Skyhold. It would be a few days’ journey, but he’d already kept Trevelyan away from his duties long enough. He’d been a burden in countless ways, as the nobility and their endless gossip had reminded him, and he wouldn’t add one more problem to the pile.

“Are you alright?” Trevelyan had asked, grabbing Dorian by the arms and scrutinizing his face.

“No,” Dorian responded, “but I’d prefer not to talk about it here. Back at Skyhold.”

“And your father?” Trevelyan asked.

“Leaving tomorrow morning.” Dorian felt particularly dead inside. _Too bad you can’t raise your own spirits with necromancy._

Trevelyan gave him another once over, and let him go. “Alright,” he’d said, and called after Varric and Cassandra. They made their way back to the King’s Highway, and onward towards Skyhold. 

In their days-long journey, Dorian insisted on sleeping alone, for what felt like the first time in ages. He didn’t have the strength to face Trevelyan quite yet. 

Not that Trevelyan had made much of an attempt to question Dorian, or pry answers out of him. He’d go through the basic pleasantries – the ‘how are you doings’ and ‘I’m here if you’d like to talks’ – but had keep his distance from Dorian. Dorian wondered whether it was courtesy for Dorian’s feelings or revulsion at the display he’d seen back in Redcliffe. 

Things were as patched up as they possibly ever would be, and yet, Dorian couldn’t manage to excise the pain. Surely, it was toxic and tumorous, festering inside of him, and he’d love nothing more than to tear it from the inside out, but how does one cut away the damaged, unhealthy flesh from one’s own heart without killing oneself?

Dorian didn’t have the answer, and he was quite certain no one did.

Upon their return to Skyhold, Dorian took a long bath, with very warm water, and very expensive soaps and oils. He sunk himself under the water, and tried to find some little ray of joy in the tiny luxuries he was affording himself, but he couldn’t seem to get it all out of his head. Sure, Halward had made an effort, and they’d come to something resembling reconciliation, but he wasn’t about to run home into daddy’s arms. If there was anything Dorian clung to, it was himself. He’d learned to love himself deeply, for the simple reason that no one else was going to do it for him. And Halward had attempted to take that away from him, the one thing he prized above all else. His confidence, his capability, his courage were all his own, and he’d be damned if anyone in entire world would wrest them from him.

He’d made his way to the library, and stood by the window, facing the courtyard, hoping to see something that might lift his spirits. He was hardly in the mood to pretend to read. He watched all of Skyhold’s inhabitants scurry about the grounds, carrying letters and papers, patching up the walls of the fortress. There was a training session in the courtyard near the stables, a number of Leliana’s scouts all dissipating into smoke before launching ethereal violet blades at the training dummies before them, which were summarily eviscerated by the after-image of the Assassins stabbing them through several times over. 

He wondered about the lives they all lead, each and every one of them standing below. Where had they been born? What had they lost? Who had hurt them? What scars did they bear? He was certain that if he wanted answers, he’d only have to ask Leliana. Still, a report on someone’s life, their failings and their successes, could never reveal the depths of their pain, or the brilliance of their hope. 

“Dorian?” Trevelyan called from behind him. 

Dorian still wasn’t sure that he was ready to turn around and face him. After the fireworks in the tavern in Redcliffe, all he wanted to do was to build the wall back up around him. How much more pain was he expected to deal with? 

He’d seen Trevelyan’s eyes as they’d made their way back to Skyhold. He’d look over, and catch Trevelyan staring at him, something sad and quiet in his gaze, like he was looking at a distant, painful memory that had healed over with time. As if he was looking at Dorian, and still, beyond him. 

_He’s standing, waiting, outside of the walls. Maybe it’s time you let him in._

Dorian breathed in deeply. 

“He says we’re alike. Too much pride. Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now I’m not certain. I don’t know if I can forgive him.”

_Not so bad._

“He tried to change you?” Trevelyan asked.

_You spoke too soon._

“Out of desperation. I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away,” Dorian gazed back, over his shoulder, and peeked at Trevelyan. His eyes were sad, but he stared at Dorian intently, hanging on every word. “He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me… acceptable. I found out,” he turned back to peek once more at Trevelyan, “I left.”

“Can blood magic actually do that?” Trevelyan asked, his voice incredulous. _Silly Circle mage. Have you ever even seen the power of blood magic with your own eyes?_

“Maybe. It could also have left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal. Part of me has always hoped he didn’t really want to go through with it. If he had… I can’t even imagine the person I would be now. I wouldn’t like that Dorian.” 

Dorian had wondered, time and again, what the results of his father’s little experiment would have been. If it had worked, of course. Who would he have become? Everything that Father wanted, a perfect son, with perfect manners, who would willingly marry the perfect girl, and fuck a line of precious heirs into her womb? Would his Father be forced to pull the strings the entire time? Magic Dorian’s hips up and down for every thrust into his unloved bride? The thought sickened him.

And what of himself? Would he just cease to exist in that moment the spell took hold? Everything he was, completely subsumed by a new, compliant personality? Or would some fragment of him remain, like a caged animal, rattling against the bars, screaming from the inside out as he watched himself carry on a life that was no longer his, a prisoner in his own body? 

Either option was absolutely horrifying. That his Father had even considered such a fate was perverse, a sin beyond any that a son should be expected to bear on behalf of his father.

“Are you all right?” Trevelyan asked, his voice laced with concern. Dorian heard his foot step forward.

“No. Not really” Dorian answered, turning back to the window to gaze mindlessly upon the courtyard. He stared across the battlements, and saw Cole sitting across from him, staring out directly at Dorian from underneath the brim of his hat. _Kaffas, that’s frightening._ He turned back to look at Trevelyan. “Thank you for bringing me out there. It wasn’t what I expected, but… it’s something.”

Trevelyan smiled his crooked smirk at Dorian, but there was still sadness lurking behind his eyes, his brows knitted in worry. Dorian figured it was about time to bring the conversation back around to levity.

“Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display,” his voice lilting, letting Trevelyan know that yes, he would survive after all.

“I think you’re very brave.” Trevelyan said, his voice deep and low. His eyes glistened, the light reflecting off their glassy surface.

“Brave?” Dorian asked, genuinely puzzled by Trevelyan’s reaction.

“It’s not easy to abandon tradition and walk your own path.” Trevelyan said, his eyes softening into something different. The corners crinkled ever so slightly, but it wasn’t the look that Dorian had become accustomed to. There was warmth, but it was different. Dorian was taken aback for a moment. 

He pondered Trevelyan’s gaze. Of all the reactions Dorian expected – revulsion, disappointment, shock – he had never expected a compliment from Trevelyan. _A compliment!_ That’s what the look was, working its way behind Trevelyan’s eyes as he stared quietly at Dorian. _Admiration._

Dorian’s face broke into a simple, small smile. Trevelyan returned the gesture, but he couldn’t seem to shake the sadness in his eyes completely. Dorian wondered what it might be, that was playing inside of Trevelyan’s mind, but he thought better than to ask. No need to reduce the Inquisitor to tears in front of everyone in the library. 

“At any rate, time to drink myself into a stupor. It’s been that sort of day. Join me sometime, if you’ve a mind.” Dorian hoped that the levity would help to bring something to Trevelyan’s eyes other than sadness, and if that should fail, well, at least there would be alcohol to wash away their respective problems.

Trevelyan chuckled lightly, his mouth still closed, and he moved forward to kiss Dorian on the lips. 

“I’ll keep that in mind. I have a thousand things to take care of in the War Room before I can even consider touching a drop of ale, but if you’re still in the tavern later, I’ll be sure to come and find you.” He rubbed the small of Dorian’s back gently. His eyes were still sad, but they smiled gently at Dorian. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He turned and walked away. It all felt so abrupt, and Dorian felt strangely cold as Trevelyan disappeared out of the door, surely heading back to the advisors in the War Room. Something was plaguing Trevelyan, obviously. Indeed, it was strange to Dorian that Trevelyan didn’t immediately blurt it out. Never before had Trevelyan stopped short of spilling his thoughts and feelings in any fashion. Whether it was admitting his fear and insecurities in sealing the Breach, his impatience in dealing with the mage-Templar negotiations, or his admiration of Dorian’s physique in the bedroom, Trevelyan held nothing back.

Dorian had seen the tragedy that had resulted from a dam being shut all too recently, the bodies buried underneath a torrent of water in the mines below Crestview. All he could think of were their final, agonizing moments. He wondered what tragedies might lie underneath Trevelyan’s eyes, once the dam was opened and the water was drained.

___

 

Dorian had, indeed, made his way to the tavern that evening, if not to drink away his problems, then at the very least to dull the pain from a sharp stabbing to a light ache.

He hadn’t been seeking any company, and was more than content to sit at the bar, throwing back tankard after tankard of ale. He’d thankfully eaten a decent meal at dinner, but it was the first whole meal he’d been able to stomach in days, and his tolerance for the poison in his glass was certainly not nearly enough to handle the amount of liquor he intended to consume. He cared little. He’d said he wanted to drink himself into a stupor, and he had no intention of diverting from his original plan, regardless of how much or how little liquor that might require.

He had just gotten halfway through his second tankard when a hand whacked him with a thud square in the middle of his back. He was midway through swallowing his latest gulp, and it got caught in his throat as he jumped. He coughed violently, slamming his tankard down on the table, and pounded his fist into his chest. 

“Y’alright there?” Sera said, chuckling, as she continued to slap Dorian on the back. As much as he’d like to blast the little elf through the wall of the tavern, the repeated strikes to his back were helping to push the ale from his lungs, and he wasn’t about to kill her with his bare hands until he could catch a proper breath. 

“ _Kaffas_ , Sera!” He choked out. “Was that the most opportune time to smack me in the back, halfway between sips?” He coughed violently, little sputters of ale and bile rising in the back of his throat. 

“Looked less of a sip, and more of a chug, if you ask me. This about your arsehole father?” She said, sitting at the stool next to him. He looked over at her, and she sat there, wiggling slightly in her seat, as though she could never quite get the hang of sitting still. She seemed as pleased as she ever did. 

“Possibly,” he responded, before grasping his tankard again, and daring to take a sip. Thankfully, the vile brew only burned his throat slightly as it went down.

“You know what I think?” She said, motioning for the bartender, who quickly poured her a drink and vanished. _Smart dwarf, that one._

“I don’t, but I’m assuming you intend to enlighten me,” Dorian said sarcastically, even though he was truly curious. What possible insight could she have? _Your curiosity hasn’t gotten you killed yet, Pavus. Careful that your luck doesn’t run out sooner, rather than later._

“He can piss off, that’s what I think.”

“How novel,” Dorian muttered, before taking another swig, draining the remainder of his tankard, and waving his hand for another.

“Seriously, Dorian. I get it. You’re the _good_ Tevinter. Which means he’s the bad kind, if you’re so bloody mad at him.”

“It’s not that simple,” Dorian said. He felt the liquor start to tug at the edges of his mind. Thankfully.

“Sure it is. Listen, you’re alright, for a mage, and a Tevinter at that. But there aren’t that many, like you, I mean. Coryphemus sure isn’t. Pissbag.” She huffed. “And your father? _Magister Pavus?_ ” Her face twisted in exaggerated disgust. 

“How did you find out, exactly?” Dorian asked, as his third tankard appeared before him, courtesy of Cabot.

“The Inquisitor was talking with Lady Prissypants and the others in the War Room. Wouldn’t say what happened. Said it was ‘your business.’” She mocked Trevelyan’s voice, all the severity and seriousness of his assumed role as the Inquisitor.

“How thoughtful of him,” Dorian said, his voice droll and unimpressed, turning his tankard up once more. He was, of course, pleased that Trevelyan was discreet and respectful. He was also certain that somehow, they’d all find out about the specifics of his encounter with his Father. _Might as well have just laid it out for all of them now._

“Thoughtful enough, so long as your business isn’t getting us killed. Is it?” She asked.

“Sera, my dear, the only person at any risk from _my business_ is me. You have nothing to fear, I promise.” 

“Good. Got enough bloody Tevinters to worry about, what with Coryphy-spit and those Venatori arses running about,” she spat, before taking a sip of her ale. She stood up from the table, probably to retreat to her little enclave on the second level of the tavern. “Sorry your dad’s an arse.” Her voice was strangely sympathetic. She skipped away, up the stairs, giving a wide berth to Maryden, the bard, who had completely alienated the elf by composing a song in her honor.

Dorian didn’t see what was so wrong. A song in his honor would be far superior to the suspicious glances and cold greetings he received from most of Skyhold’s inhabitants. 

_These cretins just don’t know how to appreciate your exquisiteness. Their loss._

He continued to nurse his ale alone.

___

 

He sat in the corner with Bull and the Chargers, not at all bothered by the fact that _Cremisius_ was staring daggers into his skull, largely due to the fact that he’d lost count of how many drinks he’d consumed in the past few hours at the tavern. The room spun around him, the dim lighting and the voices of the patrons all blending together in a strange synesthesia. Dorian laughed along at the Chargers’ tales, cheering raucously at every twist in the stories they told. 

“… so, once we’d lured the giant out of the cave,” Bull said, “Count Vanchesse raises his magical charm, which does absolutely nothing.”

“Of course,” Rocky interjected.

“The giant stares down at him, and the Count slowly realizes that the charm was as worthless as the stones beneath his feet. Unfortunately, by that time, the giant had already grabbed the Count by the middle, and proceeded to rip him in two.”

Dorian roared with laughter at the visceral image.

“So, basically, we got paid to feed a giant,” Bull concluded the tale.

Dorian tried desperately to push words out of his mouth in spite of his laughter. “Now,” he gasped, “I’d assumed… that all the nobles… of the south were complete idiots.” He managed to calm himself long enough to finish a sentence. “But I do appreciate the confirmation.” He swayed violently, leaning slightly towards the Qunari warrior, his hand falling on Bull’s shoulder to support himself. 

Krem stood up, turned, and walked out of the tavern.

“It seems I’ve upset your lieutenant,” Dorian slurred. In spite of his attempts to control himself, his face was plastered with a shit-eating grin, the corners of his mouth stretched wildly beyond their normal range. He was glad to feel the ache in his cheeks – better that than the dead, weighty feeling in his chest. 

“Maybe he’d be less displeased, if you weren’t all over half the people in the tavern. You’re a pretty handsy drunk, Dorian.” Bull laughed.

“I’m not being _handsy_ ,” Dorian moaned, suppressing a hiccup. “I’m just enjoying myself.” All Dorian needed was some physical support, to prevent himself from teetering over. 

“Well, you’re certainly a lot friendlier than usual,” Bull quipped.

“Is that a problem?” Dorian giggled.

“Depends. Someone might get the wrong idea.”

“And what idea would that be?” Dorian asked.

“That you’re trying to flirt. Or that you’re absolutely shitbagged.” 

“I’m fine, thank you, and I assure you, I’m being no more flirtatious than usual,” Dorian waved his hand, dismissing the idea.

“Whatever you say, Dorian.” Bull rolled his eye. 

“What, you think I’m flirting with _you?_ Just because I rested a hand on your shoulder?”

“It’s the tone of your voice. The way you lean in. The smile. The laughter. And the fact that you’re absolutely shitbagged.” 

_Bloody Ben-Hassrath training._

“ _Kaffas_ , I’m not that drunk. And I’m certainly not flirting with you.” Dorian protested.

“Normally, you make it a point to stand upwind of me so you don’t ‘catch wind of my stink.’” He mocked Dorian, smiling. “Touching me? That’s a big step for a pampered Vint like you.”

Dorian laughed for a moment, and took a sip of his drink. They sat quietly, listening to the sounds of the people mulling about the tavern. Dorian’s head swam, and he closed his eyes to shake it off. Thankfully, he wasn’t nauseated, although it would take only a little more liquor to push him over that particular edge. 

“I cannot believe you thought I was _flirting_ with you,” Dorian exhaled. Certainly, the first thing he lost when he got drunk was his ability to maintain a decent conversation. 

“I didn’t think. You were.” Bull looked at Dorian out the corner of his good eye. “The Inquisitor is lucky I respect him so much.”

“Why’s that?” 

“Because if I didn’t, I would have had you pinned up against the battlements with your pants around your ankles, begging me for mercy.” 

“I don’t beg,” Dorian snorted. _Lies. Trevelyan’s pulled the words from your mouth before. But Trevelyan doesn’t do it for the sake of exerting some sick sense of control over me. Lord knows, a Qunari fucking a Tevinter into submission has far too much subtext to be enjoyable._ In spite of whatever curiosity Dorian might have about Qunari in the bedroom, he was more than satisfied with his current arrangements. If those arrangements still existed. Even if he and Trevelyan hadn’t slept together since Redcliffe. Before Redcliffe. Dorian couldn’t remember how long it had been. The liquor began to pull him in a dark direction, and unless he changed course quickly, he would be drowning in his sorrows.

“I guess no one’s ever fucked you right, then,” Bull said, a crooked smirk on his face.

Dorian tried desperately not to smile, knowing the truth of the matter, but the sadness came back to grab at him. He’d hardly spoken to Trevelyan at all. He had absolutely no way of knowing whether or not he’d ever be left begging again, at the mercy of Trevelyan’s technique. The kiss earlier was sweet, but brief, unlike the many that had come before it. It was too much for him. _That’s why he was looking at you with those sad eyes. He was thinking of a way to break this – whatever this is – off_. Dorian thought back, and realized, over the past several days, he hadn’t seen the warm look in Trevelyan’s eyes. 

_You were right to be afraid to lose that look._

He gritted his teeth, and stared down at the ground. For as well-versed as he was in the ways of drowning his problems in liquor, he’d always seemed to forget the part where the happiness came to a sudden halt, and threw him back into cold, hard reality.

Dorian wanted desperately to recapture that feeling. He picked his head back up and smiled at Bull. He hardly noticed the room quieting around him.

“I’ll have you know, I’ve been fucked from here to Hossberg, by as many men as there are villages on that journey. Some were excellent lovers, and some were not, but regardless, not one has _ever_ made me beg.”

“If you’re starting that journey here, then I believe you are sorely mistaken.” 

Dorian froze, and turned around. Trevelyan stood behind him, arms folded over his chest, staring down, a smirk playing across his face. Krem stood slightly behind him, to his left. The tavern had gone quiet, but for a few whispers and the stifled laughter of a few of the patrons. Dorian wondered how loud he’d been speaking; he’d always had trouble controlling the volume of his voice when he’d been drinking.

He figured it was safe to assume that everyone in the tavern had heard him. _Excellent work, Pavus._

Bull let out a booming laugh that echoed across the tavern. Thankfully, it managed to cut through the tension. Trevelyan nodded his head lightly at Dorian, as if he were encouraging him to speak.

“Ah, Gabriel. We were just talking about you,” Dorian said. “Come, join us, and have a drink.” 

“I think you may have already drank enough for the both of us,” Trevelyan said, a light chuckle in his voice. Dorian noticed that Trevelyan was wearing a light robe, in place of his normal grey vestments. _Had he been sleeping? Had Krem gone to rouse him from his chambers to come and drag his Tevinter paramour out of the tavern?_

“I can assure you, there’s plenty more ale for the both of us,” Dorian smiled. He was acutely aware of how the volume of the tavern had not yet returned to its normal pitch, and how all the eyes bore down upon him and the Inquisitor, eager to see how this would play out. Maybe leaving wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Come,” Trevelyan muttered, leaning down to Dorian. He turned his head, his mouth nearly pressed against Dorian’s ear. “Put down the tankard. You can come back to my room, if you’d like.” It was the tenderest suggestion on the lightest of whispers, no trace of anger or disappointment hidden behind the words. Dorian’s chest burned. He wasn’t sure why Trevelyan was dragging him back to his chambers. Did he pity poor, inebriated Dorian? Was he looking for a change of scenery, so he could end things and spare Dorian some dignity? Or could it be that he just wanted Dorian in bed with him, considering it had been so long since they’d last lay together, tangled up in each other underneath the sheets?

Dorian didn’t care which it was. All he wanted was to be close to Trevelyan in this moment. He assumed the liquor had some role in this epiphany, but he was too drunk to analyze his feelings further. He passed his tankard to Bull. “Finish that, would you? I hate to see even the worst ale go to waste.” 

Trevelyan reached a hand out, and helped Dorian up from his stool. Dorian made to pull his hand away, but Trevelyan squeezed lightly and pulled Dorian to his side. Dorian tried to look into his eyes, to gather some idea of what might be going through his mind, but his eyes were obscured by the silvery-blond waves of hair that cascaded down the side of his face. 

“The only thing he’ll be begging for tonight is for the Inquisitor to not kick his ass out of bed,” Dorian heard Krem’s voice as he and Trevelyan made their way out the tavern door. 

Skyhold was relatively quiet this late in the evening, and the walk to Trevelyan’s chambers was complicated only by Dorian’s uncoordinated steps. Trevelyan was patient, moving slowly as to keep a decent grip on Dorian’s hand, until they made their way to the stairs that lead up to his chambers. Dorian felt a pit in his stomach. Trevelyan pulled his hand away, and nudged Dorian forward, following him up the stairs to his room. Dorian opened the door to his chambers, and lurched up the final steps, throwing himself on to the couch that rested against the bannister. 

“That will hardly do,” Trevelyan laughed, as he made his was to his desk. Dorian’s eyes were closed, but he heard the sound of liquid hitting a glass, and the shuffling of feet as they made their way back to him. He opened his eyes to see Trevelyan standing over him, a glass of clear liquid in his hand. “It’s water. Drink.” He commanded.

Dorian obliged, and quickly emptied the glass of its contents. Trevelyan took the glass from him, and returned to his desk, filling it once more. He made to the right side of the bed, where Dorian slept, and placed it upon the nightstand, before returning to Dorian’s side.

“What am I going to do with you?” Trevelyan asked under his breath, as his hands went to work removing Dorian’s shoes. 

“Stripping me naked to have your way with me? I’ll have you know that I’m absolutely inebriated and completely incapable of resisting you.” Dorian said, running his hand over his forehead and through his hair. He looked down at Trevelyan, his perfect, moist lips set into a line as he removed Dorian’s boots, his eyes intent upon his work, his jaw sharp and strong. Dorian felt himself stir beneath his trousers. It had been too long. He would have Trevelyan.

“Not tonight, Dorian,” Trevelyan said, his words clipped and short, as his made his way up to Dorian’s chest, magicking the buckles that held his shirt in place. “As much as I would love to, I think you’ve had a little too much.”

“So?” Dorian said, pulling himself forward to help Trevelyan remove his shirt. The cool air of Trevelyan’s room felt wonderful against his bare chest. “Being drunk hasn’t stopped either of us before.”

“That’s true, yes,” Trevelyan said, as he made his way to Dorian’s pants. “But those times, you weren’t drinking to try and forget why you started drinking in the fist place.”

“Excuse me?” Dorian said, incredulously, as Trevelyan began to undo the buckles around Dorian’s waist. 

“You’re drinking because of what happened in Redcliffe. You’re trying to cope with your problems by drowning them in ale, and I’m not going to be complicit in that act. I brought you up here so you could go to sleep before you made any bad decisions. Krem was concerned –“

“ _Kaffas_ , that fucking idiot.”

“– that you weren’t okay, and so he came and got me. He said you were getting friendly with Bull.”

“So you’re jealous?” Dorian launched the question like a fireball at Trevelyan’s head. Trevelyan stopped what he was doing, and looked up at Dorian.

“Maybe a little. Would you prefer I’d left you down there? So that you could fuck him?” Trevelyan asked. Dorian couldn’t parse out the emotion in Trevelyan’s eyes. It wasn’t quite angry, but it wasn’t sad, either. It wasn’t exasperation, and it certainly wasn’t disappointment. _Maybe, if you weren’t completely gone, you’d be able to recognize what was happening on Trevelyan’s face._

“I would never,” Dorian murmured, desperate to assuage whatever that mix of feelings was that played behind Trevelyan’s eyes. He reached a hand out to stroke his face. Trevelyan leaned into his hand, and looked down for a minute.

“I know,” he whispered. He leaned forward and kissed Dorian gently on the lips. He stood up, and extended his hands toward Dorian. Dorian rolled his head back for a moment to gather himself, and placed his hands in Trevelyan’s, who helped heave him off the sofa. 

Trevelyan’s hands found their way to Dorian’s bare waist, as his eyes searched across the plains of Dorian’s face. Dorian felt his trousers slipping down, and waved his hand clumsily toward them, feeling them peel roughly down his legs. _You’re so drunk, you can’t even magic your pants down smoothly._

Trevelyan chuckled lightly, as Dorian leaned on him, pulling his feet out of his pant legs. Dorian looked back to Trevelyan, whose face danced in his vision, sliding back and forth on the whims of the liquor that coursed through him. He leaned forward and kissed Trevelyan profanely, his tongue aggressively working his way into Trevelyan’s mouth. Trevelyan returned the gesture, grabbing Dorian tightly around the waist, pulling Dorian against his body. Dorian felt his cock straining against his smallclothes, and his hands worked their way down Trevelyan’s body, tugging at the waistband that held Trevelyan’s robes in place. He pulled aggressively at the string, and watched as the robe unfurled, exposing Trevelyan’s body. _He must have been sleeping._ He was completely naked, his own cock swollen and eager.

Trevelyan pulled away, just out of Dorian’s grasp. “No,” he gasped. “Not tonight.”

Dorian stepped forward, his hand wrapping around Trevelyan’s cock, his lips finding their way to the crook of Trevelyan’s neck. He murmured between kisses, trailing along the edge of Trevelyan’s jawline. “Come now… it’s been… far… too long… since we… last had… the pleasure… of each… other’s… company.”

Trevelyan grabbed at Dorian’s wrists, and pulled his hands back. “Not tonight, Dorian. I don’t want this.”

“Your cock seems to disagree with you,” Dorian said, pushing forward, his hands battling Trevelyan’s. 

“He’s a single-minded idiot. Dorian. _Dorian!_ ” Trevelyan ducked down to catch Dorian’s gaze. His eyes were sad. Dorian paused for a moment. “You’re trying to patch up an axe wound with a bandage, and I’m not going to be that bandage.”

Ouch. Dorian felt the words puncture him like a thousand little bee stings, pin prickles on the sides of his face, as Trevelyan once again cut down to the core. That was what this was, and Dorian, in his own drunken stupor, couldn’t seem to recognize that he was treating Trevelyan, in this moment, just like he had the rest of his lovers. A momentary salve to soothe his problems; none of them an actual cure for what ailed Dorian.

And Trevelyan saw through it, again, as he stood just out of Dorian’s grasp. Dorian had stopped fighting against Trevelyan’s hands, and couldn’t seem to find the faculties to do much more than shift his weight between legs as the room spun around him, even though this series of thoughts had been rather sobering. 

Dorian bowed his head down, staring at the ground. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” A hand rested on the back of Dorian’s head, gently stroking its way through his hair. 

“I should leave.” Dorian looked back up. Trevelyan had been impossibly kind to him, and here Dorian was, treating him like he was just another warm body from which Dorian could derive pleasure, and not much else. Dorian was disgusted with himself. He didn’t want to see his own face reflected in Trevelyan’s eyes.

“I don’t want you to.” Trevelyan continued to massage the back of Dorian’s head, and Dorian’s eyes fluttered close in response to the motion. “Let’s just go to sleep?”

Dorian’s eyes crept open, and he sighed, “All right.” Trevelyan smiled at him. _You don’t deserve it._ He shrugged his shoulders, and his robe fell to the floor. He grabbed Dorian by the waist, and carefully lead him to the bed. Dorian sat himself down on the edge, and Trevelyan made quick work of removing his smallclothes, before snaking his way back up Dorian’s legs and chest to kiss him. His hand slipped up the side of Dorian’s face, and Dorian pulled at him. Trevelyan fell gently on top of Dorian, and Dorian felt the fire rise up once more, just as Trevelyan pulled his mouth away. He stroked gently at the side of Dorian’s cheekbone with the back of his knuckles. 

“I missed you,” he whispered. 

“I don’t see how you could. I hadn’t gone anywhere.”

Trevelyan looked down, before smiling wryly at Dorian. “Yes, you did.” 

He pulled himself up toward the pillows, and grabbed at Dorian, encouraging him to do the same. Dorian found his way into the nook, and curled up, content to fall asleep. 

“I’m glad you’re all right, Dorian. I’ve been worried since you got that letter,” Trevelyan murmured, his left hand errantly sliding up and down Dorian’s side. It all felt so… _normal._

“I’m fine. Everything is fine.” Dorian breathed. 

“It’s not, Dorian, or else you wouldn’t have felt the need to get this drunk.” Dorian looked up at Trevelyan, whose chin was pressed against his chest, so that he might better see Dorian. “I’m here, you know. I meant it.” Dorian stared up into Trevelyan’s eyes, a glowing green focal point while the rest of the world spun around them.

“Yes, you are here.” Dorian rapped on his chest with his fingers. He wanted to go to sleep, to save this conversation for a later date. Why was Trevelyan being so insistent? Trevelyan leaned his head back against his pillow, and sighed. 

“Do you think I wouldn’t understand, or that I would judge you?” Trevelyan breathed, his voice hanging low in the air around them. 

“How could you understand?” Dorian said, his voice lazy and heavy with liquor. “You didn’t grow up in Tevinter. You couldn’t possibly gather what it’s like – just as I could never understand your life here, in a Circle, before the rebellion.” 

Trevelyan sighed, and turned his head to stare at the wall. Dorian couldn’t make out the look on his face, but he was certain that whatever he’d said was completely, utterly wrong. The shame and disappointment were overwhelming. He pondered the merits of jumping off the balcony to assuage the embarrassment that filled him. 

“You know what my mother said, when she found out I was a mage? She said, ‘We will find a way to fix you.’ I’ll never forget it. She looked at me…” He paused, his voice crackling. “… she was so disgusted. Like I’d _planned_ it, all to spite her.” He spat the words. “My father did nothing. He just stood there, silently, and let it all happen. That’s all he ever did. She spent weeks trying to figure out a way to change me, while I was barricaded in my room, so as to not harm anyone. She contacted Dalish clans, mages in Kirkwall – this all occurred well before that city went to shit – the Formari. None would help, or maybe, none could. I remember when she’d come to her final conclusion – that I would be made tranquil. So that I might be ‘respectable’ once again. Better a tranquil, living a quiet, unfeeling life than a potential abomination to bring shame upon the family name.”

Dorian couldn’t see his face from this angle, not that he wanted to watch Trevelyan suffer through the pains of his past. 

“At that point, my father had enough of my mother’s insanity, and contacted the Chantry, to have me shipped off to a Circle. When the Templars finally arrived, I remember feeling relieved. I went with them gladly, even though they ripped the Fade away from me as a precautionary measure. Can’t have untrained mages loosing magic on their journey to the Circle. My father hugged me goodbye, and told me he loved me. The only time I think I’d ever heard those words from his mouth…” His voice crackled again, and he breathed in a shaky breath, steadying his tone. “And my mother? She stood at the end of the hall, unable to look at me. She just stared into space, overtaken by her own disappointment, her failure of a son finally swept out of the doors of her home, no longer her problem.” 

He sniffled, loudly, and rolled slightly to his side, breaking Dorian away from the comfortable grip he had on Trevelyan’s chest as he’d listened intently to his story. Dorian’s hands grasped at his body, as he cursed himself for questioning Trevelyan’s empathy. _He’s given it to you in spades, you ingrate! Are you that far gone, right now, to question him? If you haven’t lost him yet, you will with your fool mouth!_

“So I understand,” Trevelyan started. “What it feels like, to not live up to expectations. Even if you had no interest in those expectations in the first place.” He sighed, and turned to look at Dorian. Quiet tears trailed down his face. “At least your father reached out to you, once he’d heard you joined the Inquisition. The last time I heard from my parents was when the Circles fell. They sent me a letter to make sure I was ‘behaving myself’ and not careening off with a bunch of ‘selfish rebels.’”

Dorian pulled desperately at Trevelyan’s body, trying to yank him back into position, but Trevelyan was immobile, his gaze now focused on the wall across the room. _Maker, Pavus, it’s always another misstep with you. Surprised you haven’t managed to misstep off a cliff by now._

Trevelyan acquiesced, and turned back to Dorian, his face streaked with the remnants of his sorrow. Dorian fumbled desperately to wipe it all away, his thumbs traveling uncoordinated across Trevelyan’s face. _That beautiful face._ If anyone deserved happiness, to be free of his burden, it was Trevelyan. No one had ever extended such kindness to him, with nothing expected in return. Dorian looked down at Trevelyan, and breathed in deeply. He tried desperately to push the feeling of drunkenness out of his mind. _Say something, you fool._

“When… when my father and I finally confronted each other, back at his estate the Imperium, and it became clear that I’d not be fulfilling my intended role, he… he was furious,” Dorian felt the sting, raw against his heart. “He turned his back to me, and told me to leave. ‘Get out,’ he’d said. ‘You are no son of mine.’” Dorian felt the tears welling up in his own eyes, and Trevelyan pressed a palm to his cheek. 

“I remember, when I was young, how he’d beam with pride, as though I were the center of his world. I remember the day I passed my exams, and had become a full-fledged Enchanter, of the Circle of Minrathous. How proud he’d been.” Dorian sniffed indelicately, as Trevelyan pulled him against his chest. “But that day, he wouldn’t even look at me. Like I was less than nothing.”

Dorian felt his body rocked by gentle sobs, and Trevelyan brushed his hands gently through Dorian’s hair. “It’s all right,” He whispered, over and over. “It’s all right.” Dorian’s arms wrapped around Trevelyan’s chest, desperate to be held even a bit tighter.

“I found myself at the bottom of a bottle, many a night, in the company of whoever would keep me,” Dorian said. Now that Trevelyan had uncorked him, he couldn’t help but spill himself out. “For years, I’d left a wake in my path. I didn’t know what else to do, I was so wrapped up in my own despair that all I could do was drink my way to oblivion. I thought I’d left that all behind me, but clearly…” his voice trailed off, his tongue heavy in his own mouth. 

“Old scars surface, and they have a way of bringing old habits back with them,” Trevelyan said, knowingly, continuing his gentle stroking, kissing Dorian lightly upon his head. “Well, at the very least, you aren’t a mean drunk.” 

Dorian sniffed once more, and looked up at Trevelyan, who was smirking at him. Ass.

“I could fix that right now, if you’d like,” Dorian said, rubbing at his eyes. Trevelyan chuckled underneath him. Dorian cleared away the tears, and looked up, catching sight of the crinkles in the corners of Trevelyan’s eyes. 

_So you haven’t lost it after all._

“No, please don’t. You tease me enough as it is,” Trevelyan said, smiling at Dorian. Dorian edged his way up toward Trevelyan’s lips. “Good thing I enjoy it so much.” Trevelyan’s voice vanished in Dorian’s mouth, as they wrapped themselves around each other, kissing deeply, tangling themselves up in the sheets around them.

Dorian was content to lie there, not fumbling desperately for a chance to grab Trevelyan’s cock, or his ass, like he had so many times before in this bed. He was filled with a quiet happiness, as though he’d finally let go of the weight he’d been carrying around for so long – at least, for this moment. Trevelyan had managed to strip away another layer, and Dorian had survived. Trevelyan, for his part, seemed pleased, as his kiss grew deeper and slower, his teeth running delicately along Dorian’s lips. He shifted Dorian back down, breaking their kiss, as Dorian settled into the nook. 

“Thank you,” Trevelyan murmured. Dorian loved the feeling of his voice reverberating through his chest, underneath Dorian’s cheek. 

“For what, exactly?” Dorian asked.

“For listening. And for speaking. I know it must be hard.”

“I just make it look easy.” 

Trevelyan chuckled lightly. Dorian felt sleep tugging him away, and the warmth of Trevelyan’s body and the feeling of his chest rising and falling only caused him to drift further away.

“Goodnight, Gabriel.”

“Goodnight, beautiful.” 

___

 

Dorian woke up the next morning to a wicked hangover, his head pounding violently. He wanted nothing more than to remove it from his shoulders, as he cracked open an eyeball to stare at his surroundings. Trevelyan’s head was tilted down, his mouth pressed against Dorian’s head, his breathing rustling through Dorian’s hair. Dorian looked around, and realized the curtains were drawn around the bed – Trevelyan must have done it before falling asleep – and wondered what time it was. Trevelyan only closed the curtains when he could enjoy a late morning, and Maker only knew that he’d sleep for hours behind the crimson velvet, unaware of the world outside the plush walls. 

Dorian chanced a quick peek, and worked a hand toward the curtain, pulling gently. Sunlight streamed in, bright and violent, and Dorian recoiled instantaneously, like some sort of blighted creature. His head throbbed violently.

“Mhmmph,” Trevelyan stirred. “I sent the servants away.” His voice was gravelly, _impossibly_ sexy, as he snuck a peek at Dorian. “Told them I was feeling a bit ill and needed to rest for the day.”

“Covering for me? You’re too kind.” Dorian murmured, kissing Trevelyan. 

“Get a drink of water, and get back to sleep. You need it.” Dorian grumbled, and reached for the curtain once more. “No. My side. The light won’t be so bad there.” 

Dorian stopped, and then leaned over Trevelyan, who snaked a hand down to Dorian’s ass and squeezed gently. He moaned lightly with approval. 

“Perfect.” Trevelyan muttered, as Dorian pulled back the curtain. Trevelyan had been right. The light was still painful, but it wasn’t’ streaming directly through the window from this angle. A glass had already been filled with water, and Dorian grabbed for it, eagerly downing its contents, as Trevelyan’s hand continued to massage his ass, slipping a finger over his hole. 

“Still haven’t cleaned up?” Trevelyan asked, brushing against the hairs on Dorian’s taint. 

“We’ve been back less than a day. Excuse me if it wasn’t my first priority.”

“Oh, no, I’m not criticizing,” Gabriel laughed, as Dorian closed the curtain and slipped back down into the nook, his ass evading Gabriel’s reach. “You should know by now that I’ll take you however I can get you.” 

“Noted,” Dorian felt much better, the dry crackle of his throat having been dispelled by the cool water. “I shall never shave again.” 

“Fine by me. We can debate the finer points of your grooming regimen when you’ve gotten proper rest,” Trevelyan said, tugging Dorian closer to his body. Dorian pressed his mouth against Trevelyan’s chest, and nipped playfully at his nipple. “Stop that,” Trevelyan swatted Dorian’s arm. “I’m already halfway there. Any more and I won’t hesitate to try and fuck your hangover away.” 

Dorian whimpered. “I know enough about liquor to know that won’t work.” 

“Exactly. I can wait. So long as you don’t tempt me further.” 

“You have my word.” Dorian said, his hand trailing across Trevelyan’s stomach, gently brushing against the tip of Trevelyan’s cock. Moisture had already begun to seep out, trailing its sticky sweetness across his abdominals. 

“You are impossible,” Trevelyan said. 

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.” Trevelyan chuckled, and planted a kiss on Dorian’s head.

“No. I wouldn’t.”

___

 

They woke up a few hours later, Trevelyan gently stroking Dorian’s side with his fingertips. Dorian looked up at him.

“I wasn’t too unbearable last night, I hope?”

“Do you not remember?” Trevelyan chuckled.

“I’m afraid I remember all too well.” Dorian frowned, nuzzling his nose against Trevelyan’s chest. The sweet smell of sweat and sleep invaded Dorian’s nostrils, and he wanted nothing more than to savor Gabriel for as long as possible. 

“I thought you were incredible,” Trevelyan said.

“While that’s wholly unsurprising, I’m curious – what exactly was so amazing?”

“You actually talked. I don’t want to rub it in, but it was… I’m just happy that you confided in me.” 

“Ugh.” Dorian muttered. “I should warn you to not acclimate yourself to deep, heartfelt admissions. You do that enough for the both of us.” 

“Because I trust you.” Dorian looked up at Trevelyan, whose face was calm, his lips pulled up at the corners. Dorian couldn’t hold back any longer. He slid up to Trevelyan’s face, and kissed him deeply, as Trevelyan wrapped himself around Dorian, eagerly drinking him in. 

“I’m not waiting any longer,” Dorian muttered, as he bit down on Trevelyan’s lower lip. Trevelyan’s legs slid up around Dorian’s waist, and it wasn’t long before they were slick with precum, tugging and sucking at each other, Trevelyan eagerly taking all of Dorian into his mouth, Dorian’s tongue fighting against Trevelyan’s hole. He pushed Dorian back into the bed, and grabbed for the oil.

Dorian spent the remainder of the day inside of Trevelyan. They made short work of each other at first, having been kept apart for so long, victims to the heaviness that had weighed on Dorian’s heart. Dorian finished deep inside of Trevelyan, and pulled out unwillingly, watching as a trickle of his seed dripped from Trevelyan’s hole, trailing a pearlescent stream down toward his balls. “You’re finished with me so soon?” Trevelyan asked, his head leaned back, his eyes lazily staring back at Dorian, the sheets below him covered in his own sticky mess. 

Dorian pushed back into Trevelyan, his cock still rock hard, and Trevelyan groaned with pleasure. “Not quite,” Dorian purred, as he lazily rolled his hips around, grinding slowly into Trevelyan, who raised his hips up so that Dorian might fill him completely. Dorian pulled Trevelyan onto his side, wrapping his arms around his waist, planting kisses onto his shoulders, the magnificent being tossed his head back, desperate for a taste of Dorian’s mouth. They lay like this, Dorian pushing gently inside of Trevelyan lazily, as his hand groped at Trevelyan’s cock, stroking lightly. 

Dorian basked in the glow of the late afternoon, which tried desperately to break through the crimson curtains, casting their bodies in a deep red glow, as though they’d fallen into a bottle of wine and were content to drown in its contents. Trevelyan tensed around Dorian with each thrust, whimpering lightly as Dorian squeezed his cock with his hands, as Trevelyan reached back to push Dorian’s hips deeper into himself. 

He rolled on top of Dorian, who grabbed his hands, intertwining their fingers, and stretching his arms out, denying him the pleasure of stroking himself to a conclusion, as he continued his slow, laborious thrusts, careful to keep himself from his own crescendo of pleasure, even as Trevelyan’s breathing began to hitch in his chest, his body roiling with ecstasy, desperate for even a little more of Dorian inside of him. 

“Not yet,” Dorian muttered.

“I can’t…” he gasped. “I can’t…” Dorian felt Trevelyan squeeze tight around him, and groaned at the exquisite pleasure as Trevelyan came, sputtering all over his stomach and chest, as his load dripped down his sides and on to Dorian. He moaned loudly, and growled through his clenched teeth as his breathing steadied. Dorian continued his gentle, focused thrusts. 

“I can’t help myself,” his breathy voice in Dorian’s ear. “You…” 

“I…”

“It’s your fault. You do this to me.”

“And without hands, this time,” Dorian said, his deep and sensual. “It was my pleasure.”

“For me to stroke your ego?” Trevelyan asked, his teeth grazing Dorian’s ear as he smiled.

“No,” Dorian said, avoiding the low-hanging fruit for once. “Is it so unbelievable that I might find some modicum of ecstasy in your own?” 

Trevelyan looked at Dorian, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes driving Dorian to madness, as his thrusts began to quicken, ever so slowly. Trevelyan moaned loudly, before kissing Dorian deeply, and Dorian thrust deeper, stronger, faster into Trevelyan.

“Did you miss this?” Dorian growled, after a particularly potent thrust, which practically sent Trevelyan into convulsions. 

“I did,” he said, another thrust rocking his body. “But I missed you more.” 

That was enough for Dorian. He pulled out of Trevelyan, who moaned deeply at the sudden absence, before sliding out from underneath him. He climbed on top of Gabriel, and looked down, his cock slick and wet and throbbing, as he pushed it against Trevelyan’s hole, which gave way with little fuss. 

Gabriel looked up at him, his legs pressed against Dorian’s shoulders, his ankles twisted behind Dorian’s head. “Kiss me.”

Dorian didn’t need to be asked twice. He leaned forward, taking all of Trevelyan’s mouth with his own, as his hips bucked wildly into Trevelyan’s eager hole. He felt the flames rising up inside of him, as he attempted to breath out of his nose, Trevelyan’s teeth nibbling furiously on his lips. His mouth broke away from Trevelyan’s grasp as the orgasm tore through his body, his cock pulsating, as Trevelyan reached forward wrap his arms around Dorian’s head. Dorian breathed loudly into Trevelyan’s shoulder, as Dorian thrust violently into him. It took Dorian several moments to catch himself, all the while Trevelyan humming gently into his ear, the sounds of pleasure emanating from deep within his diaphragm, rumbling through his chest. Dorian was slick with sweat and the remnants of Trevelyan’s own orgasm, and he finally managed to pull back, rocking his hips slowly away from Gabriel. 

“No,” Gabriel responded, sliding his legs down to Dorian’s waist, and pulling him back in for another, deeper, longer kiss, as Dorian thrust inside of him once more. “I’m not ready to let go, just yet.” 

Thankfully, neither was Dorian.

___

 

They sat at the bar in relative quiet, their tears having dried, replaced with a quiet sense of calm. Of course, it wasn’t as though every problem had been mended, every issue raised and dealt with – that would have taken years, to be sure, and it had only been, at the most, a little over an hour. Dorian looked over, to catch his father staring at him. 

“Do I have something on my face?” Dorian asked.

“I was just thinking, how much you look like I did, when I was your age,” Halward smiled, “except for that mustache. I never would have been so bold as to grow something like that.”

“Going to tell me to shave it off, then?” 

“No, Dorian. I need to learn to accept your decisions,” he sighed, “even the small ones.” 

Dorian smiled. It was a step. A tiny, possibly insignificant step, of course, but still, it was something. More than he expected, at the very least, and maybe a sign of something better. 

_Don’t hope for too much, Pavus._

He sighed at the thought. _But then again, hoping hasn’t turned out so bad for you as of late, has it?_

“So, the lone Tevinter conscript of the Inquisition,” Halward started. “How have they been treating you?”

“Oh, you know. With the requisite amount of suspicion and disdain, as thought I’m only moments away from stabbing them all in the back and summoning an army of demons. Which, admittedly, is better than I’d expected,” Dorian chuckled.

“It must not be that bad. You are staying here, with the Inquisition, are you not?” Halward asked. There was a look in his eyes, a sadness that Dorian couldn’t quite understand. It wasn’t disappointment – Dorian knew how that emotion looked upon his father’s face. Concern, then? For his mistreated son?

“I’m only joking, Father. They’ve been kind enough, and things have only improved. I just have to win them over with that signature Pavus charm.” Dorian smiled, and his father returned the gesture, rolling his eyes and sighing.

“It seems that you have already managed to win over the Inquisitor. He would not have accompanied you here otherwise.”

“He is an exceptional man. He’s been more than gracious to me. A true leader of the people.” _And an incredible fuck._ Dorian sighed, longingly.

“So you believe, then, that he was sent by the Maker?”

Dorian stared down at the bar. “I do.” He paused for a moment, collecting his sentiments, trying to wrap his head around a way to make his father understand. “He’s defied all the odds, and risen where others would have fallen. Like the hero in one of the tales you used to tell me.”

There was a long pause, as Dorian swirled the contents of his glass around absentmindedly, dreading whatever question might come next. He felt the flush in his cheeks, hot and prickly.

“Dorian,” the tone was a quiet bellow, close to scolding but not quite there, “are you…” his voice trailed off. Several moments passed in silence, before his father shook his head. “I should know better than to ask questions that I do not want answered.” 

_Small steps it is, then._

Dorian frowned, and swallowed what remained in his glass. He stood up from the stool upon which he’d been seated, and placed his hands on the bar. He tried to remind himself that his father had come this far, but he couldn’t help but be just a little angry that he hadn’t come further. “Well, then, I think it’s best that I be going. They’ve been waiting on me long enough.” 

“Dorian,” Halward’s voice, sad once more. “Will you be returning to the Imperium, once the Inquisition puts an end to Corypheus and his machinations?” 

“I suppose that depends. Will there be a blood magic ritual waiting for me upon my arrival?” Dorian stared, his eyebrows arched intently. Halward sighed, his shoulders drooping.

“I cannot expect you to let it go so easily,” Halward said. “I assure you, there is nothing to fear.” He moved to Dorian’s side, and placed a hand on the back of his head, pulling Dorian down and kissing him on the forehead. His eyes were wet once again, tears threatening to cascade down his cheeks. “But you, my son, my beautiful, idealistic son. You wanted nothing more than to reform the Imperium. Have I stolen those dreams away from you?” 

Dorian felt the tears well up in his own eyes, and turned his head, clenching his jaw to steel himself. “No, Father, you haven’t. But everything that’s happening here is far more pressing than the Imperium’s slow rot. Once all this Corypheus business has been dealt with, then I suppose I can ponder my return to the Imperium. Until then…” Dorian trailed off. He wanted to say his goodbyes and be done with this conversation. He was a tangle of emotions, none of which he wanted to deal with at present, and now, he just wanted to return home. To Skyhold.

_Funny, how that happens. How quickly a place can become home._

“Dorian,” Halward leaned in, wrapping his arms around Dorian once more. “I want you to know, whenever you do decide to return home, there is a place for you, my son.” His final words were punctuated by the rough, sad pride, a sound that Dorian had not heard in what felt like eons. 

He stood, in the middle of the arena, having defeated every foe that had been set upon him, conjuring flames that burned hotter than he’d ever manage to produce before, summoning spirits who were bound to his will, his barrier nigh impenetrable, a spectacle for the masses that watched his performance intently. And what a show it had been. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. 

“Dorian Pavus. You have succeeded in completing the tasks presented to you, with exceptional grace and talent, I might add.” The voice of the First Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle boomed across the din of the crowd. “I am pleased to bestow upon you, the title of Enchanter. You have performed admirably. May your continued success bring honor to House Pavus, and to the Imperium.” 

Dorian bowed deeply, and when he rose, he looked over to find his father’s face amongst the people. And there he was, standing and clapping harder than anyone, a smile stretching across his face, tears in his eyes, beaming with pride at the scion that stood in the center of a crowd that clapped politely for his stunning success. He hardly paid attention to the men and women who’d be all but eager to see him fall off his momentary pedestal, because he’d managed to recapture that spark. _He’s proud of you._ Dorian etched the memory into his mind, the sounds of hands hitting hands in a strange unison, the electric feel of the goose bumps on his skin, the smell of the burnt remnants of his wooden targets. 

He looked down into the eyes of the man who'd once been big enough to carry him. His eyes were still the same, brown and deep. _Everything changes, and yet, so much stays the same._

“I love you, Dorian.” 

“I love you, too, Father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this took a little while. I had to get it JUST right. Not sure that I did, but I couldn't agonize over it any longer. 
> 
> So yeah. This was a rough chapter to write. 
> 
> Initially, drunk Dorian was a little more introspective, but I had to fix that. Who's that introspective when they're drunk? NOT ME, that's for sure.
> 
> It's been a good week. 
> 
> Things I'm happy about:
> 
> FFVII REMAKE FUCK YEAH!!!! Cannot believe SE finally pushed that button.
> 
> GAY MARRIAGE IN THE US! About fucking time. 
> 
> I LOVE MY JOB!!! It's super awesome!
> 
> So things are going good. Thank you for reading my schlock, I hope you're enjoying it. We're getting close to a certain dance, at a certain ball, with a certain Empress. I wonder who Trevelyan's going to pick? I wonder how much Dorian is going to complain about wearing those Dress Robes? 
> 
> Fun side note that I should have mentioned earlier: I had debated doing a weird thing with Trevelyan's Spirit Blade, where he summoned his hilt from the Mark - like, he'd hold his hand out, and the hilt would emerge from the Anchor, and he'd sheathe and unsheathe the blade from his hand, but that just seemed like I was pouring on the COOL! for COOLNESS! and no other reason. So I edited myself.
> 
> Thanks again for reading. And the comments and the Kudos and the bookmarks and the love. You're awesome. XOXO.


	20. The Dales and the Birthright

They stood on one side of the bridge, staring across to the other side. Several undead shambled purposelessly across the fields, as of yet unaware of their presence. They had to close the gap, if they ever hoped to cross the bridge. 

_Doesn’t someone have a boat to ferry us across? This is ridiculous._

“How long would it take Cullen to send men out here to patch this up, do you think?” Trevelyan asked the group around them, his arms folded across his chest in annoyance. 

“At the very least, a week. Not to mention how long the work would take,” Cassandra answered.

“Too long,” Trevelyan muttered, before waving his hand over the gap. Water from the river rose up, and snapped into place, freezing instantaneously to fill the gap in the bridge. “Cullen can have the troops patch up the bridge after they finish clearing that caved-in tunnel. There are boats down the shoreline we can use to ferry supplies across the river.”

_Right again, Pavus._

“Brace yourselves. More undead means more Arcane Horrors, I’m sure. Plus, whatever lies in that elven fortress.” Trevelyan gazed up, and the group followed his line of vision, to the tallest tower, where an ominous light glinted, like a distant, unearthly flame. 

“What do you suppose that is?” Cole asked, his voice wavering.

“Something that will try to kill us, if everything else on these bloody Plains has been any indication,” Dorian gazed back over his shoulder, and watched the body of the Terror Demon that had just been slain dissipate into the Fade. 

The Exalted Plains were a disastrous mess, even worse than Crestwood, if that were possible. They had fought through waves of undead, bound into service by Arcane Horrors that guarded the flesh pits where the undead kept rising, endlessly. Dorian was all too eager to light the pits on fire. Bone and ash were worthless to the spirits that would possess them. It became clear to Dorian that there was a larger game at play, even larger than two warring factions of the most powerful nation in Thedas duking it out over the right to succession, a battle that by all accounts had been settled years ago. 

The Orlesians, however, were completely unaware of what had been going on around them, until they were beset upon by the legion of undead warriors, come back to haunt them for their foolish oversight. Dorian smelled the workings of the Venatori, and more importantly, Corypheus, who saw the soldiers as nothing more as pawns on the chessboard, all too easy to sacrifice, especially when he was about to take their Queen. Or, more accurately, Empress. Dorian cared little for the specifics, especially when it came to Orlesian frippery. 

Dorian would have much preferred to be in his chair at Skyhold, reading a book before turning to nibble on some grapes and cheese. They’d just received a lovely wheel of the softest goat cheese from a Tevinter farm, and he’d practically thrown himself upon it when he realized what it was and from where it had come. He’d squirreled away a fat hunk for their journey to the Plains, but unfortunately, he’d devoured it greedily by their third night. Also, he’d decided to share it with Trevelyan, explaining to him the depth of its flavor, forcing him to savor each and every morsel. Trevelyan humored him, of course, before dragging him down to their bedroll, and squeezing him tightly to his chest as they fell asleep. 

It was strange, really. Their pace had slowed – no longer had it been a violently flurry of sexual activity between the pair – but it had certainly become more intense. Trevelyan seemed just as content to hold Dorian in his arms as he was fucking the breath out of him, and Dorian began to appreciate lying on the pillow next to him, talking about his youth in Qarinus, passing along the tales of great Tevinter heroes of old, while Trevelyan stared up at him like an eager child, waiting for the next twist in the hero’s journey. That was, of course, not to say that Trevelyan wasn’t eager to wrap himself around Dorian and fuck him until the pair of them couldn’t move a muscle, but things had changed. Dorian had begun to open himself, tentatively of course, and Trevelyan watched and waited on him, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes becoming a more frequent sight, every time Dorian revealed another little piece. 

Of course, when pressed by the others regarding his intentions for joining Trevelyan on the trip to the Plains, he’d found the perfect cover, saying that he’d wanted to come to finish off the Venatori woman that Leliana had managed to track down for him. 

Hilaria failed to resemble her namesake in the least. Dorian could not recall meeting anyone quite as bland and uninteresting as she was – which made her remarkable, in a completely unremarkable way. Her flat tone, lacking any sort of intonation, was absolutely tedious to listen to, and Dorian found himself excusing himself from her presence, when he’d had the massive displeasure of running into her at parties in Minrathous. Furthermore, she was positively besotted with Dorian, actively seeking him out and attempting to impress him with displays of wealth or power, something Dorian had absolutely no interest in. 

What Dorian did have interest in was her brother, Septimus, named for being the seventh child in their home, an unusually large sized family for the nobility of the Imperium. “An interesting stratagem,” his mother had yawned when he’d mentioned the girl’s family name, “that they have devised. They are hedging their bets, desperately hoping to birth a child worthy of being _something_. Unfortunately, those of their stock rarely produce anything of value. Thankfully, your father and I got it right the first time.” She’d patted his head, a little too aggressively, considering he was well out of his teenage years, and that she’d only started her second glass of wine for the morning. 

Septimus was tall and broad, an envious physical specimen, a hulking beast of a man with muscle to spare. Unfortunately, all that brawn failed to translate to magical aptitude, as the poor boy struggled desperately to do much more than cause the veins in his forehead to throb with his effort. Luckily, the family genes had given him something in the way of good looks and his physique. He would have been practically useless otherwise.

So, naturally, when Dorian realized that Septimus was amenable to falling prey to his advances, he was more than willing to humor Hilaria for long enough to steal away to an unoccupied room with her brother. 

When Dorian had finally managed to get him alone, he was surprised to find Septimus on all fours, demanding that Dorian fuck him. This wasn’t exactly the direction in which Dorian had imagined their liaison heading, and not quite so suddenly, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the hole. Dorian would have been more disappointed, if it weren’t for the fact that there seemed to be no limits with Septimus. It was empty, and meaningless, and Dorian delighted in watching him wilt underneath his cock, shooting violently into his waiting hand, so he could quickly clean himself with a handkerchief and return to whatever social engagement they were attending. 

Every time they wound up in the same place, Dorian wound up balls deep in Septimus, who came buckets and moaned loudly, until Dorian would reach over to cover his mouth. Luckily, the boy didn’t have any problems with a bit of rough treatment, nor should he have – he could have easily snapped Dorian’s cock off by clenching his well-muscled ass cheeks together while Dorian was inside him.

Unfortunately, all the fun came crashing down around them one evening at a particularly decadent affair. Dorian was feeling especially adventurous, and had decided to fuck his temporary partner on a balcony above the gardens. It wasn’t until Septimus threw himself back on top of Dorian that he was aware anyone could see them. Dorian magicked the lumbering fool off of him, swearing that he’d broken a bone from the weight that crushed him. He pulled his pants up around his waist and rushed to the edge of the balcony to find Hilaria gazing up at him, a horrified look on her face.

The family had Septimus shipped off to some corner of the Imperium. They may have been clinging to relevance in the Magisterium, but they still had enough power to banish one of their own readily enough. Dorian had shuddered to think of what _his_ family might do to him, one day. If only he’d known. He never bothered to find out what had become of Septimus. For all his eagerness in taking Dorian’s cock, he wasn’t a particular active participant, just waiting on his hands and knees for his orgasm to come find him. 

Dorian wasn’t quite sure why Hilaria had joined Corypheus, although he’d assumed it was in the hopes that the renewed greatness of Tevinter would lead to a renewed greatness for her family. Too bad she wouldn’t live to see it. She fell all too easily. 

_She died as dully as she lived._

They’d managed to make their way into the _Citadelle du Corbeau_ – Dorian was positive that’s exactly what the elves had named it – and watched as the beacon of what appeared to be golden light ripped across the floor of the fortress, incinerating the bodies of the undead warriors who shambled forward to try and attack their small group. 

“I wish Solas had decided to stick around,” Trevelyan muttered, frustration in his voice. “Alright,” he turned to them, as Dorian dropped a Fire Mine in front of an undead warrior who stumbled forward over the glyph and was immediately reduced to a quivering pile of burnt flesh. “From what I can tell, the light is not constant – it flickers on and off – and it moves slowly. We can make our way around it. Dorian, let’s try to maintain Barriers while we can. Everyone, go.”

They began to move quickly through the fortress. Dorian couldn’t help but echo Trevelyan’s sentiments: Solas would have been valuable, as he was likely the only person who might know what exactly was raining down upon them. However, after his earlier encounter with the group of mages that had summoned his ‘friend’ from the Fade, forcing its transformation into a Pride Demon, he’d stormed off in a huff, claiming that he needed to be _alone_.

Dorian could understand that. Solas had spent much of his life without companions of any sort in this world. When Trevelyan stopped him from damning the foolish mages to the same fate that had befallen his friend, Solas was infuriated. He’d never had to answer to anyone before, and Dorian could see how coming up against resistance would cause him to retreat. Dorian assumed he’d gone off to some secluded wood, to drug himself into sleep and drift away to the Fade: Solas’ version of going to the tavern and drinking himself under the table. _Perfectly reasonable_ , Dorian thought. 

They’d managed the sweep through the lower portion of the Elven fortress, hugging the outer wall, carefully avoiding the ray of death that surged across the fortress. Dorian and Trevelyan were able to keep most of the undead and spirits at bay with magic, and Cole’s quick, sudden strikes help to pick off any particularly resistant stragglers. They stood at the upper level of the fortress, staring across a particularly broad courtyard. 

“We will be exposed. Do you think we can manage?” Cassandra asked.

“It’s not like we have much of a choice,” Trevelyan responded, arching an eyebrow at Cassandra. “Fucking Orlesians, right?” She smiled at him. “Alright, let’s move.”

_Kaffas_ , Dorian thought. Maybe they ought to have gone back to that Dalish tribe they’d encountered in the south – Trevelyan had won them over, seemingly, by providing them with supplies and chasing down a gilded halla for the group. Dorian wasn’t above admitting he had not the slightest inkling of the magic behind whatever ancient Elven artifact was causing their problems, and at this point, he wasn’t above asking for some assistance.

_As if those Dalish would be any more informed than you are regarding the matter_ , Dorian thought. 

They trailed across the courtyard, keeping adequate space between them, hoping that however the beam of light tracked along the ground, they’d be able to confound the device. They cut through the swarms of undead, Cassandra mercilessly crushing their skulls with her mace, Cole ripping through their bodies with his daggers. Dorian and Gabriel working to incapacitate the bodies, shocking them into submission or freezing them into place, so that the ray might destroy them when it passed over them. 

“Shit!” Gabriel yelled, and Dorian turned to see a Rage Demon, sputtering violently at the top of the stairs. “Dorian!” Dorian implicitly understood the command. He focused his energy, sharpening it to a fine edge, before directing it straight at the beast. He watched as his and Gabriel’s spells joined and froze the demon solid. 

Keeping a Rage Demon frozen was never a simple feat – the molten bodies would struggle to burst forth from the icy enclosure, and once they’d found a weak point, would force themselves through the cracks until your spell was rendered all but useless. Two mages, of course, made the work easier. Cassandra leapt forward, and slammed her mace into the beast with all her might, her Seeker abilities cutting through the demon. It shattered into fragments, huge chunks of ice that melted nearly instantaneously as they hit the floor, the scattered remnants of the monster bursting into flame before dissipating back through the Veil whence they had come. 

Unfortunately, Cassandra’s assault kept her in one place far too long, a fatal error, when an ancient Elven artifact was determined to obliterate you. Dorian watched as it sped along the ground toward her. “Cassandra!” he’d yelled, “Move!” She heard, and complied, but the beam chased her furiously, more aggressively than it had chased any of them before – was it because they were approaching the source? 

Trevelyan ducked in alongside her, staff in his hand, as he pushed her to the side with a particularly forceful Mind Blast, flinging her several yards to his right. She stumbled to a stop, tripping over her feet and falling on her side.

Trevelyan’s gambit had worked. The ray had been distracted from Cassandra, and instead, bore down on Trevelyan, who raised his hand in anticipation. Dorian shouted across the field, rushing toward Trevelyan. _He’ll throw himself on whatever sword he can find, the idiot!_

The ray drifted over Trevelyan, whose barrier held out against the onslaught, the Anchor crackling violently against the force. Trevelyan’s teeth gritted against the strain, but he was holding strong. He looked over to the group. “Hurry! Get to cover!” 

Cole and Cassandra obeyed instantaneously, but Dorian stopped, looking over to Trevelyan, who waved with his staff. “Go! I’ll be right behind you!” 

Dorian nodded his head, and Fade Stepped toward Cassandra and Cole, who were standing near the steps that lead to the top of the tower. The bodies of Orlesian nobles littered the stairway, and the undead shambled among the inanimate corpses, unaware of their presence.

Dorian turned, and watched as Trevelyan made his way, step by step, out of the reach of the beacon, when he finally let down his Barrier and jogged toward the group.

“Are you injured?” Cassandra asked. 

“Not at all,” Trevelyan said, staring down at his hand, which continued to crackle, albeit not as violently as before. “I’m just… the Anchor fortified my Barrier, I think?” His voice rose in an upward inflection, questioning his own suspicions. “It’s never done that before. Why would the Anchor protect me from ancient Elven magic?” He stared around the group, and they all looked back at him, again collectively mystified by the Anchor on his hand. The groans of the undead trudging down the stairs toward them broke them from their mutual reverie, and Dorian planted a Fire Wall between the walking corpses and their team, content to watch them reduced to ash with such little effort. 

“Cole, I’ve always wondered,” Dorian said, as an exceptionally resilient body fell at his feet, writhing as it burned to death. Undeath. _Whatever_. “The spirits that possess these corpses – do they feel pain?” 

Cole pondered the question for a moment as the light from the fire danced across his face. “Yes… and no.” 

“A pity Solas isn’t here to translate,” Dorian quipped.

“Play nice,” Trevelyan warned.

“It’s… hard to explain,” Cole continued, as the corpses continued their pointless march into the flames. “It’s the idea of pain. A shadow, shade, a shimmer of what the real thing is like. Spirits are shapeless, so they can’t sense sensations like you.”

“That… doesn’t exactly clarify things.” Cassandra chimed in. Cole shrugged at her.

“I’m sorry. I could make you forget, if that would help?” Cole offered.

“No, thank you,” Cassandra replied. Dorian could almost see her skin crawl.

“I think that’s the last of them,” Trevelyan said, before dispelling Dorian’s Fire Wall with a wave of his hand, and walking up the stairs. “Let’s see if we can’t disable that device. It’s caused enough trouble, don’t you think?”

The Chevaliers were glad to be rescued from certain death. Saving the Orlesian military was certainly another feather in the Inquisition’s cap. Cleaning up the messes made by others had quickly become the role of the Inquisition, and every disaster that was circumvented only added to their stock. It wouldn’t be long, Dorian estimated, before even the Chantry would be required to validate the Inquisition with its seal of approval. 

Several Inquisition agents had managed to carry supplies across the river, and Trevelyan made sure they were doled out quickly and efficiently to the people, who thanked him with the respectful bows and extended courtesies they’d been trained to perform, as a signifier of their station, even though most of them were half starved to death. Trevelyan took it all in stride, encouraging them to conserve their energy, to eat and drink so that they might restore their strength.

The General was kind enough to provide several rooms within the fortress for the Inquisitor and his companions. They had initially offered four, but Trevelyan quickly corrected them.

“Three should be fine,” he said, as the General’s head, covered in a silver helm, turned toward the Seeker. Cassandra rolled her eyes. The General looked back at Trevelyan.

“I don’t sleep,” Cole interjected, amplifying the awkwardness. Wonderful.

“ _Three_ ,” Trevelyan’s voice darkened like a scolding parent as he glared back at Cole, “ _should be fine_.” 

The General paused, too exhausted to make heads or tails of whatever was going on before her, and called a soldier to show them to their rooms. 

The room was stark, obviously, with nothing but a tiny stool and a small mattress pressed into the corner, and it was painfully dark, with but a candle to illuminate the space, but it was thankfully warm.

“I hope you don’t mind sleeping in such cramped quarters,” Trevelyan said, his hand brushing along Dorian’s shoulder. “I could always go find the General and let her know that we do, in fact, need the fourth room.”

“We practically sleep on top of each other, regardless of how much space we have in bed.” 

Trevelyan pinched his side gently, and chuckled. “Can’t say I don’t enjoy that.” 

They stripped themselves naked, and crawled under the covers. Trevelyan curled up in Dorian’s arms, his back pressed against Dorian’s chest, as Dorian nipped playfully at his neck. 

“You know better than to do that, unless you’re looking to get fucked,” Trevelyan laughed.

“Alright, then,” Dorian laughed, before kissing the back of Trevelyan’s freshly shaven head. The fine stubble of his hair pricked against his lips. Trevelyan turned back, to greet Dorian’s lips with his own.

“Tell me a story,” Trevelyan said, his hand on Dorian’s side, their noses nearly touching. 

“Another Tevinter legend? You’re insatiable.”

“You knew that already,” Trevelyan said, as his hand slid down to grab a handful of Dorian’s ass.

“Alright, then, where were we…” Dorian sifted through his memory, trying to recall where he’d left off.

“Archon Darinius,” Trevelyan reminded him, his voice deep and serious.

“Ah, yes,” Dorian smiled. “My favorite.”

___

 

“That is the price, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I will never pay it.” Dorian frowned, his arms folded across his chest, so as to prevent him from lighting the merchant on fire.

“Suit yourself. You know my terms. I conduct most of my business out of Val Royeaux,” Ponchard said. “If you happen to change your mind, I am not too difficult to track down.”

“Even if you were, Sister Nightingale would be able to find you,” Dorian said coolly, hoping that the words would come across like a threat.

“She is hardly in the business of killing merchants without cause,” He chuckled. “Unless you are afraid that the Inquisitor would be… unwilling to assist you.”

“There is no need to get him involved in this,” Dorian growled.

“Not unless you want your Birthright returned to you,” he said. Dorian could just make out the glint in his eyes, hidden by that ridiculous mask. “ _Au revoir_ , Monsieur Pavus.”

Dorian huffed quietly, before turning back to the opened gate. He wondered whether or not they’d be serving wine at breakfast. It had already been that sort of day, and the sun hadn’t even peeked over the Frostbacks.

___

 

“We’ve managed to secure an invitation to the peace talks at the Winter Palace.”

“Oh? Courtesy of?” Trevelyan asked.

“Grand Duke Gaspard.” Josephine replied. 

“The usurper!” Trevelyan laughed. “My mother would die of shame. My introduction to the Court, irreparably tainted by the hand of the insurgent General!” He exaggerated, fanning himself with an imaginary fan. “She’s a terribly ardent supporter of Celene.” 

“It was our only option, unfortunately,” Josephine said. “The Empress would never have extended the invitation herself, without the approval of the Chantry. She’s attempting to consolidate her support in the wake of the Civil War. Helping the Imperial forces in the Dales has earned some favor, but the Court still looks upon us with suspicion.”

“So I shouldn’t walk into the Winter Palace, glowing hand outstretched?” Josephine stared at him, and sighed. “Joking! Although, it probably wouldn’t hurt to brush up on etiquette.”

“Thankfully, the Anchor is on your left hand,” Josephine muttered, “or the nobility might refuse to shake your right in greeting.”

“My dear,” Vivienne interjected. “It is of the utmost importance that you focus on making a good impression at Halamshiral. The support of the Orlesian Court could prove instrumental in gaining favor with the Chantry, and there is no mightier military in all Thedas.” 

“Understood,” Trevelyan said.

“More importantly,” she turned to Josephine, “what will the Inquisitor be wearing?”

“ _We all_ ,” Josephine steeled her tone, “will be wearing a traditional uniform.” The revelation was greeted with displeased groans and several curses.

“Do I have to wear a shirt?” Iron Bull moaned.

“Yes,” Josephine said, not looking to foster a debate.

“Wait, _all_ of us? Does this mean I have to go? To some party with a bunch of pissbag nobles?” Sera whined.

“Yes,” Josephine said, failing in her goal and losing patience. Sera mumbled a slew of curses under her breath as she stomped around the War Room

“Darling, I hardly think it appropriate for the Court Enchanter to be dressed in such attire,” Vivienne added. “I have a seamstress in Val Royeaux who prepares all of my couture. Showing up to Winter Palace at Halamshiral in a uniform would be –“

“Absolutely necessary,” Josephine cut her off. “We must show solidarity; that we are united under a common banner, and a common cause. The Orlesians will understand and appreciate the meaning behind the gesture.” 

“No more debates!” Trevelyan’s voice rose over the crowd. “From what we can tell, the peace talks will be where Corypheus’ assassin strikes. As much as I’d enjoy avoiding Orlesian social events, this one is _mandatory_.” Everyone looked at him, most with a look of utter defeat on their faces, as if Corypheus had just shown up on their doorstep to kick them in the shins. 

“We’re all be heading to Val Royeaux to meet with Vivienne’s seamstress to have our measurements taken.”

“You contacted my seamstress without my knowledge?” Vivienne scoffed. Josephine smiled.

“I did, and she seemed very eager to be outfitting the Inquisition. She understands what an opportunity this is, for her work to be seen adorning the bodies of the people upon whom all the eyes of the Court shall fall.”

Vivienne smiled politely. “Quite, my darling.” She turned and left. Dorian felt the room warm as soon as she had departed. Everyone else shuffled out slowly but surely, all in various states of disappointment. Cassandra hadn’t stopped making that disgusted noise in the back of her throat since she realized her presence at the Ball was required. Luckily, she and he had made their peace before they had departed for the Dales, and Dorian was pleased to find that she was much more receptive to a brief, heartfelt apology than Blackwall had been. 

Dorian turned, and looked back at Josephine, who stood with Trevelyan, Cullen, and Leliana, discussing some matter or another. Dorian though he overheard something about the Nevarran city of Hunter Fell, but he was focused.

“So, Lady Ambassador, I’m assuming the party at this Winter Palace won’t be as dry as the company?” Dorian started.

“Dorian, I ask that you refrain from imbibing too heavily,” she sighed.

“You really are enjoying twisting the thumbscrews, aren’t you?” Dorian smiled. She looked displeased. “I promise, I will try my best to avoid giving the Imperial Court another reason to gossip about the dread magister.” 

“Thank you. Is there something I can help you with?” Her tone had brightened measurably. Dorian could only imagine the stress she was under. Dorian was certain that much of it was self-inflicted, a shouldering of responsibility, when so much of that burden was outside the realm of her control. Then again, there was so much to be worried about, so much to fear, from the armies of Corypheus to the disapproval of the Orlesian Court – every little misstep that could spell doom for the Inquisition, and summarily, the world. 

_She’s a beautiful woman, with a talented, diplomatic mind_. She could have easily married herself off to a nobleman from Antiva, or Orlais, or – egad! – the Free Marches. How lucky the Inquisition was, for Josephine to have found her way to the Inquisition. Maybe, thought, it was the same stroke of luck that kept pushing Trevelyan forward. Maybe that luck surrounded all of them, pulling them all together, shaping their destinies with an unknowable hand. 

_You’ve made it this far. Maybe the Inquisitor’s luck is rubbing off on you. All things considered, you’ve done more rubbing with him than anyone else here._

“I believe there may be. I understand you have some diplomatic ties to the Imperium?” Dorian asked.

“A scant few, to be sure, but yes. I can’t imagine my connections are more extensive than yours.”

“Not much in the way of imagination, are you?” Dorian deadpanned. “I’m sorry, that was unkind. I didn’t leave Tevinter with much in the way of contacts. Or coin. Regardless, I have a friend, one of few left in the Imperium, a magister named Maevaris Tilani. She’s just as eager to see the Venatori crushed as I am, and is attempting to drum up support for a law she plans to introduce in the Imperial Senate, one that would hopefully help to curtail Venatori activity within the borders of the Imperium. However, it’s unlikely to gain much popular support. Of course, the Inquisition’s support is all but meaningless in Tevinter, but I was wondering if you might reach out to your contacts, see if you can foster some support for her noble efforts?”

Josephine pondered the idea for a moment. “I could call in a few favors, I suppose. Another ally in Tevinter may prove to be useful.” 

“Excellent. Thank you, Josephine.” He glanced over at Trevelyan, who smiled and winked at him. “I’m sure Maevaris will appreciate our support, not to mention my own gratitude for your assistance.”

“That’s… surprisingly gracious of you,” Josephine said, looking flustered, before quickly collecting herself. “Speaking of gratitude,” her tone shifted, “I would be extremely grateful if you would stop pilfering bottles of wine from the _caves_.” She hit the last word with an affected Orlesian accent.

“You ought to blame him,” Dorian pointed at Trevelyan, whose eyes widened at the gesture. “He gave me the key.”

Josephine sighed, and shook her head. “Either way, it was you who took the bottles. Your pay will be docked accordingly, to make up for the cost of what was taken.”

_There goes any hoping of earning enough to pay off Ponchard. Kaffas!_

“Right. Well then, I shall take my leave.” He nodded politely at Josephine, and glanced quickly over at Trevelyan, Cullen, and Leliana. Trevelyan smirked at him, and gave a sly wink. _He’ll pay for that later._

He turned and walked out of the War Room, plotting all the ways in which he was going to torture Trevelyan later that evening.

_After he goes to fetch you a bottle of something better than the table wine they serve at dinner._

___

 

He stretched his back out against the plush warmth of his chair. He’d been sitting here for far too long, reading up on the history of the Southern Templar Order. He and the Commander had managed to convene for a few rounds of chess, and the conversation had been decent, but less than sparkling. This was unacceptable to Dorian. He figured he ought to brush up on some topics that might be familiar to the former Templar, for the sake of facilitating their dialogue. However, he hadn’t been particularly focused, with Ponchard and the weight of recovering his Birthright hanging proverbially around his neck. 

It was strange, Dorian thought, how the former Inquisition had tucked itself under the wings of the Chantry, so long ago. Would Trevelyan acquiesce and cede all the power he’d accumulated, once the Chantry came knocking? And what if the Inquisition survived Trevelyan? Would the next Inquisitor, or the next, or the leader of the Inquisition in Ages to come? It seemed almost inevitable, really. Power changes, switches hands, consolidates, and throughout history, there were a million examples. Wasn’t every marriage amongst the upper class of the Imperium proof enough of this law of nature?

Dorian hoped things wouldn’t go that smoothly. Trevelyan had finally managed to broker peace between the mages and the Templars, and had the rough sketches of a governing system in place for both the Circles and for the Order. The mages and the Templars would each be responsible for the control of their own organizations; however, elected representatives from each group would find their way into the other, to ensure that neither side accumulated too much power, or was taken to the extremes that had caused both the Circle and the Order to crumble so easily in the past. This would all be bolstered by representatives from the Chantry, of course, whose input would be representative of the voice of the peoples of Thedas – those who weren’t propped up by the power of lyrium.

Each Circle or Templar Fortress would be responsible for its own governance, with higher regional bodies responsible for keeping a watch to make sure that no one Circle was overtaken by renegade blood mages, or that the Templars hadn’t again fallen sway under the power a tyrant like the demon who had impersonated the Lord Seeker. 

And then, of course, the Knight Commander of the Templar Order and the First Enchanter, alongside an esteemed panel of colleagues, would help to set rules and regulations for each side, to foster trust and understanding between the two groups, and to encourage transparency in their communications.

Of course, this was all well and good, and sunnily optimistic, but until Dorian watched it all unfold in practice, he had little faith in the ability of the southerners to keep their hands to themselves for long enough to let Trevelyan’s solution take hold. Dorian gazed out the window, and saw the object of his affections walking toward Cassandra, Varric at his side. Trevelyan had confessed that Varric had completed work on the next chapter of _Swords and Shields_ , and that he would present it to Cassandra as a peace offering, after everything that had happened with Hawke. 

If only everything could be as it was in those sappy, tawdry novels. Trevelyan would save the world with the wave of a hand, broker a lasting peace with the blink of his eye, and marry the girl, whose heart he’d stolen along the way.

_Well, you aren’t much of a girl. And who said anything about marriage?!_

Dorian coughed loudly, and cleared his throat, in an attempt to quiet his mind. Everything with Trevelyan had been coasting along at a sweet, gentle pace. Trevelyan whispered his hopes and dreams in between kisses against Dorian’s temple, and Dorian returned the favor, albeit with slightly less fervor, into the crook of Trevelyan’s neck.

_You are so beautiful_ , Trevelyan would whisper. 

_I know_ , Dorian would respond. _Tell me about your family._

And Trevelyan would go on, counting on his fingers, all his aunts and uncles, his cousins and nieces and nephews, sparing no detail about how exactly he’d felt about each and every one. Dorian would laugh along, imagining what it would be like to have a family that extensive. 

They’d wander back to the familiar, Dorian straddling Trevelyan, taking as much of him as there was to give, and even then, just a little more. Trevelyan sliding underneath of Dorian, legs pressed against Dorian’s shoulders, whimpering pleas of mercy into Dorian’s neck.

And they would fall back, Trevelyan tracing patterns into Dorian’s chest, looping spirals that trailed off over his shoulders, down his torso, over his arms, as Dorian would tell Trevelyan about what it was like to be a young mage in Tevinter. He’d attempted to gloss over a tale or two once before, afraid of the judgment Trevelyan would heap upon him for his indiscretions, but Trevelyan had caught him each time.

_You’re leaving something out_ , he’d mutter.

_Nothing at all_ , Dorian would protest.

_You’re a terrible liar_ , Trevelyan would smile, and kiss at Dorian’s clavicle. _You don’t need to, you know._

Whatever had been going on between them had taken a new shape, a comfortable, quiet transformation, like a caterpillar wrapping itself inside of a silk cocoon. For all their fervor in the spring and the summer, it seemed as though they would find true warmth in the progressively colder days of autumn. He looked every night to see how much more Trevelyan’s tan had faded due to lack of exposure – not much, he was happy to report – as he’d lie naked, his head in Trevelyan’s lap, while they shared glasses of wine on the carpet in front of the fire. 

It was strange, really. Dorian had never been able to keep hold of someone for this long, possibly because none of this really felt like holding on. He wasn’t desperately clinging to something he knew wouldn’t last, nor was he clawing to savor a moment that would pass all too quickly. With Trevelyan, it was as though their hands had met comfortably, their fingers intertwining slowly but surely, as they gently walked down whatever road it was they had found themselves on.

_And what road might that be?_

The nobles certainly were curious. A summer fling was completely explicable – warm days lead to warmer nights – but the _Tevinter_ had sunken his fangs deep into Trevelyan’s flesh, and the poor Inquisitor, oh my, he was incapable of seeing reason. _Could it be more than a brief affair?_ They wondered aloud, as Dorian passed by, not even bothering to hide behind their fans any longer, their curiosity – and their suspicion – coursed unabated with the passing of time. _What does the Inquisitor intend to do, when there are droves of more desirable companions just waiting for a chance to snap him up?_

And droves there were. Trevelyan and Dorian had taken a stack of proposals from Josephine’s desk, and quietly ripped through the pile, reading off each one and laughing furiously at the overly florid, terribly verbose descriptions of the many suitors that should very much like the opportunity to meet with the Lord Inquisitor, that they might charm him enough to win his affections, and all the attendant power and influence that affection would come with. 

_A charming, beautiful daughter, well-mannered, from one of the oldest and most respected Houses in all Orlais_. Trevelyan read aloud, chuckling, before tossing the paper into the fire. _She sounds like a bore._

_Look here! ‘Our beloved son, strong and tall, with hair as fiery as Andraste’s pyre, befitting of her Herald.’_ Dorian laughed, before floating the letter into the flames. 

_At least that one has the appropriate equipment_ , Trevelyan smiled. 

They grabbed for more, and read through each one, laughing at the pages, some soaked in fragrance, others in nothing more than the wretched stench of desperation. 

_I’ve got it!_ Dorian shouted, before breathing deeply to stifle the laughter. _Ten daughters, each more graceful and alluring than the next, any of whom would look most fetching upon your arm!_ Dorian roared, and Trevelyan joined him, delighting in the sick, perverse attempts of the nobility to pawn their children off on the Inquisitor, without so much as a word about what they hoped to gain from such an arrangement. 

Not that it needed to be said, of course. Dorian and Trevelyan were capable of reading between the lines, and Trevelyan had a wonderful humor about his circumstances. 

_At least I know you aren’t here for my title and influence. That’s got to be worth less than nugskin in the Imperium_ , Trevelyan chuckled, before kissing Dorian deeply. 

_So what exactly are you here for, then, Pavus?_

The thought nagged him constantly. He couldn’t evade it for much longer. He’d thought that opening up all his baggage would push Trevelyan away, but it had only brought them closer, and now, a relationship that settled at just the physical seemed impossible to Dorian. Of course, he was happy, but in the moments when they lay in bed, pressed against each other, Trevelyan having come, but unwilling to pull out from inside of Dorian, it tingled in the back of his mind. 

_You want more._

He sighed. It was true. He wanted more. He wanted to give the nobles reason to gossip. He wanted to be the reason why Trevelyan was burning all the proposals in his hearth. 

He didn’t know what he was doing, of course. It’s not like he’d ever seen this before – two men, entangled in a romantic affair – so it wasn’t as though he had some sort of pattern to emulate. _That’s never stopped you before, you know. You’ve carved your own path, time and time again. You need to stop with the excuses, Pavus, and man up._

Try as he might, the question always caught itself in his throat. _Better to have what little something you do, than nothing at all._

He sighed. Trevelyan had disappeared from the courtyard, and Cassandra was planted on a stool, book in her lap, head turned down intently at the pages before her. 

_See? If she’d never expressed herself, she’d never have gotten what she wanted._

_Oh, quiet you_ , he thought to himself. 

“Excuse me, Master Pavus?” He turned his head back to reality. At the arch to his alcove, stood Mother Giselle. 

_Wonderful._

“Can I help you?” Dorian asked, trying to mask the irritation in his tone and failing miserably. 

“I was hoping you had a moment to speak.” She looked at him plaintively.

“Regarding what? That letter my parents sent you on the sly?” 

“I wanted to discuss your relationship with the Inquisitor.” She stared at him, eyes slightly sad around the corners, or possibly just drooping with age. Dorian cared little either way, considering this was a topic his was unwilling to broach with anyone, even himself.

“I should think that your time would be better spent preaching to the masses than questioning me about whatever it is that may or may not be transpiring between the Inquisitor and I. Just look out the window – there are hundreds of them, eager to bask in the comfort of the Chant!” Dorian suspected this would not dissuade her from her self-appointed task, but he wanted to be rid of her as quickly as possible, and if that involved a few pointed jabs aimed in her direction, so be it. His goal was to endear himself to the Inquisition. Her allegiance was to the Southern Chantry. Completely distinct entities, as far as he was concerned. 

“There is no need for this conversation to be contentious,” she replied calmly, but Dorian could feel the undercurrents of agitation starting to rise in the woman. _Good._

“There is no need for this conversation to be happening at all,” Dorian responded, smiling coyly at her, his eyes narrowed, begging her to challenge him. He was a talented mage, certainly, and had bested many a foe with a wave of his staff and a flourish of his hand. It didn’t stop him, however, from delighting in the myriad tools he could use to crush his opponents. His biting wit and his cutting tongue were some of his favorite tools.

“You must be aware of the rumors spreading throughout Skyhold and beyond its walls, and the damage your association with the Inquisitor has done to the credibility of this institution.” Dorian bristled violently at the mention of the Inquisition’s credibility. He’d hoped the tiresome nobility had discovered a new angle from which to attack Dorian, but it seems that they were stuck on the old standby. “Surely, if your feelings for the Inquisitor are genuine, then you would have no qualms letting your intentions with the man be known.” 

Dorian’s stomach dropped out from below him. _His intentions?_ Was he expected to scribe a formal announcement every time he intended to fuck the Inquisitor? Or should he have his Father send a letter to Josephine, advising her of the marriageability of his son? _Ha! Unlikely, at best._ His intentions were to enjoy whatever time they had. Or, those had been his intentions. Now, he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted. 

_No, you are sure._

He wanted something, anything, the slightest indicia that what he and Trevelyan had was more. But he wouldn’t admit that to the Revered Mother. Not before he gathered the courage to admit the same to Trevelyan.

Dorian stood up from his seat, and brushed past the woman, her robes flapping with the speed of his pace. He turned back to face her. 

“I don’t think my intentions are any of your concern, or anyone else’s for that matter, save for the Inquisitor.” He had long since stopped trying to hide the contempt in his voice. “Or are you just looking for gossip to funnel back through the rumor mill?” 

“I cannot pretend to know how things are done, where you come from, but…”

“Where I come from, two people can fuck in peace without having half the country engaged in a heated debate about their _feelings_ or their _intentions_ ,” he snarled. 

“That may have been so, but your presence by the Inquisitor’s side calls into question every decision the Inquisition has made since you arrived in Haven,” she made toward him, squaring up against him. “Your perceived… influence could crush the peace between the mages and Templars that the Inquisitor has so carefully brokered. Do you think the Chantry will accept a plan that was concocted with the aid of a Tevinter, no matter how sound?”

“Aha, so that’s what this is about.” Dorian stepped forward, towering over the woman, as he craned his neck over her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “You’re afraid that your beloved Chantry is no longer calling the shots,” his voice was but an amused whisper, “and so you’ve found an easy scapegoat in me, to call into question everything the Inquisition has accomplished. An impressive strategy, considering its origins. It almost reminds me of home! Build up enough bile, just in case the Inquisition doesn’t pan out the way you’d hoped, and Thedas will spit it up once Corypheus has been defeated, more than happy to abandon their so-called Herald.”

Dorian hardly believed that Giselle had a mind for such machinations, of course, but turning the implication of scheming around on her put him back in control of this dreadful conversation. He, after all, could stomach the accusations that had been launched at him – he’d been doing it since birth, practically – but Giselle would keel over under their weight. He smiled and waited, and sure enough, she snapped.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing!” She gasped, as she stepped back.

“I’m being clucked at by a hen, evidently,” he breathed nonchalantly, determined to burrow further underneath her skin. 

“Don’t play the fool with me, young man!” she yelled, as Dorian listened to the noise echo around the room. 

“If I wanted to play the fool, I could be rather more convincing, I assure you.” _She makes it so easy._

“Your glib tongue does you no credit,” she chastised. _As if I care_. He heard the steps coming up the stairs behind him in the rotunda, and felt the familiar pull of the Fade around him, the warm, enveloping feeling that he’d grown accustomed to over the course of the past several months at Skyhold. He smiled at the recognition. 

“You’d be surprised at the credit my tongue gets me, your Reverence.” _The moans it pries from Trevelyan’s lips would send you into fits._

“Oh, I…” Giselle paused at the realization of whose footfalls had been making their way up the stairs. _Not how you thought this little chat would turn out, was it?_

“What’s going on here?” Trevelyan asked innocently, as he moved to Dorian’s side. _Two against one is hardly fair._

“It seems the Revered Mother is concerned about my ‘undue influence’ over you,” Dorian stared straight at Trevelyan, hoping he would see the look behind Dorian’s eyes.

“It is just concern. Your Worship, you must know how this looks,” she pleaded.

“You might need to spell it out, my dear.” Making her twitch underneath her high collar was the most enjoyable thing Dorian had done in the past few weeks. Other than the glorious specimen that stood at his side, naturally. 

“This man is of Tevinter. His presence at your side, the rumors alone…”

“What’s wrong with him being from Tevinter? Specifically?” Trevelyan’s earnest tone gave no hint of whose side he might be leaning toward. Dorian wondered for a moment, if he’d overplayed his hand, and his attempts at eliciting a response from the poor, elderly Revered Mother might incur Trevelyan’s ire.

“I’m fully aware that not everyone from the Imperium is the same,” she offered.

“How kind of you to notice. Yet still you bow to the opinion of the masses?” Dorian shot back.

“The opinion of the masses is based on centuries of evidence. What would you have me tell them?” She replied.

“The truth?” He said, attempting to mimic Trevelyan’s earnest tone.

“The truth is I do not know you, and neither do they. Thus these rumors will continue,” she turned to Trevelyan.

He shifted his weight slightly, and glanced over at Dorian, before looking back at her. “There’s no cause for concern, Your Reverence.” 

“With all due respect, you underestimate the effect this man has on the people’s good opinion.”

“Do the people know how he’s helped the Inquisition?” A righteousness had developed in Trevelyan’s voice. Dorian felt his heart swell inside of his chest. _He’s defending you._

“I… see,” she muttered, dejectedly. “I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor,” she attempted to backpedal, “only to ask after this man’s intentions.” _Vishante Kaffas, you’re so full of nugshit, it’s coming out your mouth._ “If you feel he is with ulterior motive, then I humbly beg forgiveness of you both.” She bowed her head respectfully in their general direction, and hastily made her way across the library, shuffling out of the door to the Main Hall. 

“Well, that’s something,” Dorian said aloud. 

“She didn’t get to you, did she?” Trevelyan turned, and placed a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian felt the flutter in the pit of his stomach. _He cares for you. Surely it wouldn’t kill you to invest a little bit of faith, that maybe Trevelyan might want more as well?_

“No. It takes more to get to me than thinly veiled accusations.” _Helpful, Pavus._

“You don’t think she’ll do anything?” Trevelyan asked. 

“Do what?” Dorian asked, slightly perplexed. “Yours is the good opinion I care about, not hers.” He paused at his little admission. _Alright, then. The world is still standing._ “It does make me wonder: is my influence over you… undue?” 

“Perhaps,” Trevelyan breathed lightly, pulling Dorian in at the waist. “But it’s the kind of undue influence I enjoy.” He flashed his teeth, and Dorian immediately felt a calm wash over him. _What are you even worried about? You see how he looks at you. Is it so hard to believe?_

“No one accused you of being politically astute,” he deadpanned. 

Trevelyan chuckled. “Not today.”

Dorian laughed. “I tease you too much, I know.” _Thankfully, you seem to understand what that means._

“Oh, I probably deserve it,” Trevelyan muttered. He leaned forward to kiss Dorian gently on the lips. 

“I can think of a few things we can do that don’t involve teasing. Soon, ideally.” 

“I’m stuck in the War Room for most of the afternoon with Josephine and Leliana. It’ll have to wait until tonight, unfortunately.” Trevelyan snaked a hand down in between Dorian’s legs, and grabbed at his cock, massaging it momentarily before letting go. “I’ll see you at dinner,” he smiled, before pecking Dorian on the lips and heading back down towards the War Room. 

Dorian smiled after him, in a stunned silence. _He grabbed your cock in the middle of the library. So much for those rumors._

_And he stood up for you_. He felt his smile broaden. 

_Kaffas._

___

 

He’d returned to the comfort of his chair after Trevelyan’s daring rescue from the hands of the Reviled Moron. _Not your best insult, Pavus_. It would have to do. Trevelyan had stripped him of his focus. 

He’d pulled out some of his notes on the Amulet of Time, and perused through them halfheartedly. There were but a few minor enchantments he needed to work through the Amulet, and it would be complete, and he could begin testing to see if it worked the way he’d hoped. At which point, he could burn the parchments that contained years of his hard work, and hopefully seal the secrets of time magic away.

_A shame no one will be able to appreciate your genius in ages to come._

He was still somewhat tense after his encounter with Giselle. She’d certainly had quite some nerve to accuse him of manipulating the Inquisitor like some sort of puppet. And while Dorian delighted in the fact that he had, in fact, been able to manipulate the Inquisitor – with a few choice fingers stuck in the right places, of course – his machinations were purely for Trevelyan’s pleasure.

Still, he wondered how much longer all of this would last: the petty gossip, the pointed accusations, the vicious lies. He’d very much like to bring all of that to a close, and quickly, if at all possible. He had been on his best behavior – or at least, as close to his best behavior as was possible for him – and it seemed that no one had noticed in the least. Was even a little recognition asking for too much? Were these southerners so dense as to render them of capable of seeing that he was an asset and not a liability? 

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, trying not to let the agitation get the best of him.

“Dorian?” a voice.

“What?” He responded curtly, opening his eyes. The Commander stood in his alcove, his chessboard folded underneath his arm.

“I apologize,” he started in, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“No, not at all,” Dorian replied politely, as he shuffled away his papers. “I’m very sorry, I was just lost in thought. Were you hoping to get a game in?”

“If you have time.”

“I do.” 

They made their way to the gardens, where a small table and two chairs had been set up by a sevant – one of the _liberati_ of the Imperium. Dorian smiled at him, and he nodded his head respectfully, instead of the deep bow that was customary from a slave to a man of Dorian’s status. _A sign of progress_.

“How are they treating you?” Dorian asked.

“Just fine, thank you, Master Pavus.”

“You can drop the honorific, you know.” 

“Certainly, sir.” 

“How are the others faring?” 

“Just as well. We’ve all found our place within the ranks of the Inquisition.” 

“I’ll say,” Cullen chimed in. “That one elf girl practically begged to join the Templars.” 

“She’d lived a life of constant abuse at the hands of her former masters. Mages, of course. Hopefully, the Order can teach her to seek justice instead of vengeance.” He smiled sadly. 

“I couldn’t blame her for seeking either,” Dorian added, staring off toward the row of towers that lined the front of the fortress. 

“In spite of everything that each of us has suffered over the course of our lives, we have a chance to begin anew. We are all finally free of the physical shackles that bound us for so long. Her desire for revenge, however, continues to bind her heart, and those shackles are the hardest to break.” 

Dorian looked over at the man, and then at Cullen, who stared off with darkness in his eyes. The words had proven resonant, for the both of them. 

“Well, I should be off,” he offered.

“May I ask,” Cullen said, “what is your name?”

“They called me Duo, in the Imperium,” he replied.

“They named you after a number?” Dorian asked.

“No. I had a twin brother. I just happened to come out second. The tale stuck, and when I was sold, that’s what my new master called me. It’s the only name I’ve ever known.”

Somehow, the crisp autumn wind suddenly felt wintry. 

“Good afternoon,” Duo offered. Dorian and Cullen nodded, and watched as he walked away through the garden, lost in thoughts that were very different, yet very much the same. Dorian turned to look at Cullen.

“If I ponder my own shackles for any longer, I might just throw myself over the battlements.” 

Cullen smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “I can relate.” He motioned, and he and Dorian both assumed their seats at the table. Cullen unfolded his chessboard, and he and Dorian went about placing their pieces. 

“You’re no longer tethered to the Templar Order,” Dorian offered, as he finished moving his pieces into place.

“Yes, but…” Cullen drifted off momentarily, a twinge of pain jolting across his face for but a moment, “It’s never quite a clean break with the Order. I…” he froze up and frowned slightly. “I haven’t taken lyrium since,” he whispered.

“I assume that’s rather risky?” Dorian asked, his hushed tone mirroring the Commander’s out of respect for his privacy. He moved a white pawn across the board. Cullen insisted that Dorian play white, and that he have the first move. 

“It certainly hasn’t been easy. At times, I wonder whether I’ll succumb. I’ve seen what happens to those experiencing lyrium withdrawal. Samson-“

“The Red Templar’s Leader?” 

“Yes.” Cullen pushed a pawn forward. “He was kicked out of the Order, back in Kirkwall, and withered to nothing once his lyrium supply was cut off.”

“And that’s why he was willing to follow Corypheus.“ Dorian moved another pawn. “Anything for a fix, I suppose.” 

Cullen’s lips pulled taut in a grimace, as he rested his chin on his folded hands. He picked his head up, and went to move a piece. “What about you? What shackles were you pondering?”

Dorian tilted his head to the side, considering the board in front of him. “My family, and my homeland.”

“Does this have something to do with the visit your father paid a few weeks ago?” Cullen asked.

“He really didn’t tell you anything about it, did he?” Dorian’s eyes moved up from the board, to scan Cullen’s face for a sign, but none came.

“The Inquisitor refused to speak a word of it. To be honest, I’m not quite sure that Leliana herself knows exactly what happened.”

“Please. It was probably one of her agents impersonating my father,” Dorian chuckled, before sliding another pawn toward Cullen. The Commander looked at Dorian.

“Forgive me if this is too forward, but… whatever happened between you?” He asked. Dorian’s gaze drifted, and Cullen opened his mouth, but Dorian held up a hand to stop him.

“You’re a man of duty,” Dorian began. “In the Imperium, the duty of each child, at least those of the Upper Houses, is to follow in the footsteps of their parents – to train in a prestigious Circle, to marry someone of proper breeding, and to one day assume your family’s seat in the Magisterium. I, however, had made other plans. My father, in his displeasure, planned to correct my rebellion with a blood magic ritual.” 

It was funny, how long ago it seemed now, how emotionless Dorian was in recounting the tale. And after how raw it all was, those short few weeks ago. Dorian pressed on, his voice cool and unwavering as he repeated the tale.

A look of confusion passed across Cullen’s face. “He planned on making me a puppet. So I would marry the girl, produce the heirs, and vie for the Archon’s seat, that I might finally bring honor instead of disgrace upon House Pavus. So, I fled.” Dorian added.

“Maker,” Cullen responded. “I’ve seen more blood magic in my life than I’d hoped I ever would, but that is beyond the pale.” 

“It’s par for the course in the Imperium. That old southern adage about the streets of Tevinter running red with blood? Untrue, of course, but only because we’ve learned to keep our shame behind closed doors. I refused to become another pawn in that game –“ Dorian slid his Knight across the board, “– and my father felt he had no recourse. Prior to that day, my father had never even considered the possibility of using blood magic.”

“He’d never used blood magic?” Cullen asked, his chin resting on his folded hands once more as he considered his next move.

“Not that I’d ever seen, no. Does it surprise you, that there are those in the Imperium who consider the use of blood magic a weakness?”

Cullen moved his Cleric to take one of Dorian’s pawns. _First blood_ , Dorian thought. “I suppose it shouldn’t.” He looked up at Dorian. “Have you…?” He paused. Dorian didn’t need him to finish the sentence.

“Once, out of curiosity. Now, before you pull out the lyrium to brand me tranquil, I’ll have you know I was but a young mage, I used my own blood, and it was purely academic – I wasn’t looking for an extra bit of power in the middle of a heated duel – and I’ve never done it since.”

Cullen sighed, as Dorian slid another piece haphazardly across the board. He ought to pay more attention to the game, if he had any hope of beating Cullen. The Commander was an exceptional player. 

“I’m sorry that you had to endure that,” Cullen said, exhaling quietly. “Those who become lyrium-addled are said to lose their memories, and eventually, their minds. I’ve been lucky enough to avoid that fate up to this point.” He looked up at Dorian. “Funny, almost, had things not turned out in our favor, we’d have ended up in much the same place.” 

“ _Kaffas_ , Commander. You’re terribly fatalistic, considering you’ve made it this far.” Cullen stared off into the distance, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Dorian leaned forward. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on you, but I won’t start worrying unless you start losing these games.” 

Cullen chuckled lightly. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat, and pushed himself forward, considering the board. “So, what are your thoughts about our attending the peace talks at the Winter Palace?” 

“I’m sure they’ll have enough food and drink to dull the sting of rejection I’ll be feeling once the Court finds out I’m _that_ Tevinter. Otherwise, I couldn’t care less. I’m assuming that you’d rather run yourself through on a blade than spend one minute going through the motions of the Grand Game?” 

“Maybe not quite that dramatic of an aversion, but I’m certainly not looking forward to it.” His eyes continued to drift across the board. “I suppose I understand the necessity of my attendance, but I doubt I’ll ever develop a passion for courtly intrigue.”

“I can’t say I don’t appreciate a good party, but I certainly have no love for the petty backstabbing, the desperate bids for power and relevance, the gossip whispered across the ballroom.” 

“If you think what you’ve experienced here is bad…” his voice drifted off.

“I’m fully aware that I will be the center of a tempest. So long as Trevelyan isn’t in the room.”

“Unless he’s standing next to you,” the Commander offered, cheekily. He sent his Queen into the fray.

“Oh yes. My favorite brand of torture,” Dorian deadpanned, staring at the board. He could attempt to bait Cullen with a Knight, but he’d probably see through the ruse all too easily.

“That’s what I’d assumed,” Cullen offered again, his tone still jovial. Dorian appreciated when the conversation rolled around to good-natured ribbing. Of course, he was generally the one responsible, but Cullen wasn’t above getting a good dig or two in, when the opportunity presented itself. For a man as stoic and guarded as the Commander, Dorian saw the teasing as a good omen. It had been a while since he had someone he could call a friend. Other than Trevelyan. 

_Gabriel isn’t just a friend._

“Losing to you, however? Absolutely unbearable.”

Cullen smiled warmly at Dorian, and Dorian smiled back. 

Cullen didn’t fall for Dorian’s ruse. Dorian’s defeat was practically assured. 

___

 

Dorian wandered into the Main Hall. Trevelyan stood near his throne, a relatively unimpressive chair they’d found sitting there when they’d first arrived. Of course, Josephine had taken the pains to have it restored, reupholstering the fabric in a bloody red leather, smoothing out the worn edges and re-staining the wood in a dark, warm brown. Jagged blades poked from every angle, and the back was adorned with a large golden ornamentation styled in the shape of the Inquisition’s seal. It could hardly be comfortable – when Trevelyan leaned back, the gilded sigil pressed in between his shoulder blades – which is probably why the Inquisitor was so loath to sit upon the seat. 

_That, or he just loathes rendering judgment._

Dorian strolled slowly toward him. He was conversing with a pair of Orlesian nobles, hiding behind their ridiculous ornate masks. Vivienne had attempted to explain their utility to him, and he’d understood the basic concept well enough, but he was quick to remind her that it was just as easy to hide behind pleasantries and propriety, all while working to destroy your enemies with blackmail, or more blunt instruments.

_Spoken like a true Tevinter_ , she smiled.

_You can take the magister out of the Imperium_ , he offered up.

_You’re hardly one of them, my dear_. He wasn’t sure whether to take it as a compliment, or an insult, so he split the difference and took it as both. 

“I hope you’ve found your lodgings comfortable.” Dorian heard Trevelyan over the din, his voice as smooth as a stream babbling over rounded pebbles. 

“Quite comfortable, all things considered,” the noble responded. His accent was markedly not Orlesian. Antivan?

“Ah, Dorian!” Trevelyan motioned for him, and Dorian picked up his pace, sliding to the Inquisitor’s side. Trevelyan smiled warmly at him.

“Gabriel,” Dorian nodded politely. Gabriel smiled wider. _Ass._

“This is Dorian, of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous,” Trevelyan said, repeating the introduction Dorian had greeted him with back in the Chantry in Redcliffe. _I can’t believe he remembers that. I can’t believe_ I _remember that._

“How do you do?” Dorian nodded politely at the nobles, who responded with their own slight bows, murmuring general noises of polite greeting.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man offered. “I am Duke of Rialto, and this is my wife, the Duchess.”

“How do you do?” She extended her hand gracefully, pointed down to the floor. Her hand was coated in baubles that glittered off the light of evening sun setting through the stained glass window at the end of the Main Hall. Dorian took her hand, bowing down so that his lips grazed the tip of her wizened knuckles. She giggled in delight at his propriety, snapping her fan open, fanning herself lightly. 

“The Duke and Duchess will be attending the masquerade at the Winter Palace. They decided to pay a visit to Skyhold, before heading onward to spend the remainder of the month in Val Royeaux.”

“I thought we would need time to acclimate to the impossibly cold weather of the south!” The Duchess laughed delicately. 

“I’ve been here a year, and I still haven’t,” Dorian chimed in, and the Duchess laughed, delighted with his charm.

“Ugh!” The Duke moaned, pulled the mask off his face, “And these absolutely ridiculous things.” They all shared a laugh. 

“Will you be joining us for dinner, my dear Inquisitor?” The Duchess asked. 

“Thank you for your invitation, but unfortunately, I have a prior engagement which requires my attention this evening, my lady. I would be more than happy to join you for dinner tomorrow evening, if the offer still stands.” 

“Certainly,” she curtsied, before lightly tapping Dorian on the arm, “and bring him along – he’s a delight,” she purred, “and so handsome!” 

“Yes,” the Duke added, before leaning slightly toward Dorian. “We can always discuss how much lovelier the weather is up north, this time of year.” 

Dorian laughed politely, a reflex he’d learned as a child in the Imperium, watching his parents perform the necessary task time and time again with a practiced grace. He’d become an expert, but with the Duke, it was hardly an effort. There was a gentle warmth in his eyes, something Dorian had sorely been lacking from most, save Trevelyan. He was almost disappointed that he wouldn’t be sharing dinner with this oddly charming couple. 

They didn’t seem to be concerned with all the trappings of their status, nor with Dorian’s birthplace. A far more sensible sort than he’d become accustomed to, down in these parts. He wondered whether it was the unforgiving climes of the south. Or the boisterous familiarity of Antivans in general, tempered by their noble birth.

He cared little. They were kind, and he wasn’t in any position to turn down kindness.

“Until tomorrow then,” the Duchess bowed, and they all followed suit. He watched as they sauntered off through the hall, the Duke’s hand stuffed into his pocket, his arm bent out from his side, the Duchess having entwined her hands around it, her head leaned gently against his shoulder.

It was only at that moment he’d realized that they must have been as old as his parents, and yet, how they seemed so much younger and brighter. He’d never seen so much as a hint of affection linger between his mother and father. They hadn’t even bothered to play pretend when he’d been a child. He realized that, as much as he’d languished over the lack of a model for a relationship between two men, he’d certainly never even seen one between a man and a woman. 

_And yet, you want one so desperately, Pavus._

“I like them,” Trevelyan said, calling Dorian out of his haze. He turned to look up at Gabriel, who continued to watch his guests across the Hall. 

“For as many nobles as you actually like, that’s saying something,” Dorian ribbed. “What’s this about you having plans this evening?”

“I actually had a surprise for you,” Trevelyan murmured, leaning into Dorian. 

“I loathe surprises,” Dorian said darkly. _An innocuous lie_. The truth was that he appreciated them, albeit those done in good taste, _naturally_. The truth was also that he was afraid that these little surprises – the key to the wine cellar, the most comfortable chair in the library – were all being tabulated by the gossipy nobles. The special attention he’d received from Trevelyan had not gone unnoticed, clearly, but the scrutiny came down harder every time word got around that he’d been gifted with new robes, or lavish jewelry, or any other petty, foolish object that these shortsighted nobles would obsess over. In reality, he’d received nearly none of what they speculated he had, but dispelling those notions would require speaking with them, and he wasn’t that desperate for friends and allies. Not quite yet, at least.

“You’ll like this one,” Trevelyan said, and grabbed Dorian’s hand, as he made his way over to the door leading up to his chambers. 

“But we haven’t eaten,” Dorian protested. It was a stalling tactic, a cheap and useless one, he was certain, but his mind winced at the possibility of what lied at the top of the staircase. It would be so much simpler if he could figure out whether or not Trevelyan wanted to fuck him, but he wasn’t getting the sense that the surprise was tucked in the sheets of Trevelyan’s bed.

“Come on,” Trevelyan said, his voice slightly agitated. Dorian began to march up the stairs.

“You could just tell me what it is, and avoid all this unnecessary tension,” Dorian suggested.

“It was going to be a prayer circle with Mother Giselle, but she ruined that with her antics today,” Trevelyan shot back. Dorian glared back at him as he continued up the stairs.

“You’re an ass.”

“And?” 

“I just wanted to remind you,” Dorian said, unconcerned with the hands that pushed at him to pick up his pace. They marched the rest of the way in silence, accompanied only by the sounds of their feet hitting the steps in a rhythmic beat. They arrived at Trevelyan’s door, and Trevelyan stepped close to Dorian’s back. 

“Open it,” he encouraged, a warm whisper from the back of his throat. Dorian rolled his eyes, and breathed heavily, before pulling the door forward. 

The scent hit him immediately, the spicy tang that recalled a place much warmer than here, the musky, spiced flavors of a world and a life thousands of miles and ages beyond where he was standing. He felt himself being carried up the stairs by his own legs, but he had no idea how it was happening. 

He stopped at the top of the stairs, to see a table set up in front of the fireplace, a chair on either side. A bottle of wine graced the tabletop, and two dishes, filled with Tevinter cuisine, the smell absolutely unmistakable. Standing beside the table, hands folded politely in front of her, was Sylenna, who smiled knowingly at Dorian.

“I’ve been meaning to do this for a while, but I figured, after today’s clucking-to,” Trevelyan said, strolling around Dorian’s side toward the table, “you deserved something special. I had Sylenna pull together what she could from what was available in the kitchen.”

“Forgive me,” she started in. “I tried to make do-“

“It’s perfect,” Dorian interrupted. He wiped at his eyes. “Thank you,” he nodded politely at Sylenna. He turned back to Gabriel. “And you.” 

“She did all the work. I only made the request,” Trevelyan said.

“I was more than happy to help, Lord Inquisitor,” she bowed. 

“I will find a way to get you to drop that honorific, one day.” She smiled at him.

“What did you buy?” Dorian asked suddenly. It seemed like the most important question in the world to him at the moment. 

“What?” Trevelyan asked.

“Oh!” She smiled, pulling at her collar, producing a small gold chain from underneath her fresh, clean robes. “A necklace. It was silly. I didn’t really need it, but I’ve always wanted one of my own,” her voice dropped down to a whisper, as she rolled the chain between her fingers.

“It’s as good a reason as any,” Dorian said. She caught his gaze, and looked down, a flush of embarrassment on her face.

“I will leave you two to enjoy your dinner,” she gathered herself and curtsied politely, and glided past the pair, down the stairs and out the door. 

Dorian stood for a moment, dumbfounded. The Herald had moved mountains – almost literally – and this was, comparatively speaking, a small effort on his part, but nonetheless, very touching. He felt Trevelyan sidle up alongside him, his eyes trained on Dorian, before moving toward one of the chairs by the fire. He pulled it out from the table, and turned back to the silent mage.

“Come. Sit down and tuck in, before it gets cold.”

Dorian laughed, departing from his reverie, and moved to the chair, sitting as Trevelyan pushed the chair in beneath him. Trevelyan took his seat, and carefully uncorked the wine, grabbing Dorian’s glass and pouring generously.

“Going to leave any left in that bottle?” Dorian asked.

“You’ve never complained about my heavy-handed pour before.” 

Dorian took his glass as Trevelyan poured one of his own. Dorian caught a whiff of the familiar bouquet – the same wine from the vineyard in Qarinus they had shared that night in the War Room – and smiled. 

Trevelyan carefully set the bottle back down on the table. Dorian looked at him across the table, the flames flickering against the side of his face, illuminating his features beautifully. The sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones, the shadows sinking into the hollows of his cheeks, the strange, ethereal glow of the Fade sparkling out from the centers of his irises. Each part of the whole only worked to make him more handsome. Dorian extended his glass across the table.

“Cheers,” he offered.

“To what?” Trevelyan asked. 

_Us._

“This," Dorian replied. 

Trevelyan smiled, and clinked his glass against Dorian’s. “ _Tchin tchin._ ”

“The Orlesians have poisoned you with their toasts,” Dorian moaned, before taking a delicate sip from his glass. He wanted to savor _everything._

“Actually, that’s from my mother. I heard it plenty, believe me.” He took a sip, and placed the glass down. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Dorian folded his napkin over his lap, and went about delicately cutting a piece of meat. He may have been eager for a bite, but he certainly hadn’t forgotten his manners. He raised the fork to his lips, and was nearly reduced to tears by the taste – the delightful, fragrant flavors he hadn’t tasted in so long, a blend of spices he could never have forgotten. It was a simple dish, really, but it was home. He felt the spiciness bloom over his tongue. He closed his eyes and reveled in the sensation. Southern cuisine was far blander than anything from his homeland.

“Ah!” He heard Trevelyan sputter. He opened his eyes to find Trevelyan, face red, eyes watering, tongue shoved out of his mouth. “Ish shpichy!”

He laughed. The Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, who’d managed to evade death more time than could be counted on all the fingers of all the members of the Inquisition, foiled by a spicy piece of chicken. 

“I thought you liked playing with fire?” Dorian joked. “It does take a bit of getting used to.” 

Trevelyan grabbed for the carafe of water, not even bothering to pour himself a glass, chugging aggressively in hopes of dousing the flames. He dropped it to the table with a thud, and sighed heavily.

“Well, I have to learn some time, I suppose.” He smiled at Dorian, in spite of the tears that streamed out the corners of his eyes. 

The dinner went on, Trevelyan attempting desperately to palate the spicy cuisine and keeping it together for the most part. Dorian appreciated his effort. That was Trevelyan: always making an effort on Dorian’s behalf. Dorian wished he could return the many favors, that there was some measure of equity in their relationship, at least in this regard. But Trevelyan’s position and connections were quickly becoming unparalleled. Dorian doubted that his connections within the Imperium, _Kaffas_ , even his father’s connections, paled into what Trevelyan had built, and assuredly, where he would end, with the gratitude of the entirety of Thedas.

_It certainly helps to have the Bride of the Maker standing behind you._

For as much as Dorian enjoyed the meal, he was afraid that there was something he’d begun to appreciate far more. He watched as Trevelyan fanned himself with his hand, and with every flap of his hand, Dorian was further enamored. The warmth inside of his chest had ignited into flames, and Dorian wasn’t quite sure when it had happened, but there was no denying it. Dorian found himself holding back the words, when Trevelyan had just finished inside of him, Dorian’s legs pinned back by Trevelyan’s chest, both of them slick with sweat, when Trevelyan would quickly find Dorian’s lips with his own, and help to keep the words in the back of Dorian’s mouth, instead of spilling out into the air around him. 

_What is this? What are we? Do you…?_

“I have a question I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Trevelyan murmured from across the table. His forearms rested carefully on the flat surface in front of him, as he gazed into his plate. 

“Oh? I am, as you say down south, all ears.” He grabbed his glass of wine, and took a deep pull. 

“I’ve been told something about an amulet.” 

Dorian choked on his wine. He coughed loudly, feeling the bile rise up in his throat, as he attempted to force the liquid from his lungs. He managed to collect himself, at least enough to get a couple words out.

“How…” he gasped, “how did you hear that?” Trevelyan cocked an eyebrow at him. “Oh,” Dorian moaned, irritated that he’d been so easily found out. “Leliana.” It was his own fault, really, for thinking he could keep a secret in Skyhold. Hopefully the walls of the fortress weren’t so paper thin if Corypheus decided to attack. “Of course she would find out.” 

Trevelyan leaned forward, and placed his hands in his lap. “Don’t make an issue of it. I don’t want someone solving my personal problems for me,” Dorian said, his tone calm, but assertive. This wasn’t Trevelyan’s mess, and Maker only knew the amount of messes he already had to clean up, not to mention the personal requests and favors that were asked of him by half the inhabitants of Skyhold. “I’ll get the amulet back. Somehow. _On my own_.” His tone dipped down into finality, hoping this would be the end of the conversation. He knew that it wouldn’t be. 

“I’m not entirely certain what it is?” Trevelyan asked.

Dorian sighed. _Trevelyan was only good at taking hints when they were laced with innuendo_. “The Pavus Birthright,” he breathed, feigned formality dripping from his words. “The flashy thing you show peons to make them tremble at your impressive lineage. I didn’t leave Tevinter with much in the way of coin, so I sold it,” he admitted sheepishly. “Entirely forbidden, of course, and foolish, but I was desperate.”

It had been foolish, but it had been necessary at the time. Dorian was out of options when he’d traded the Birthright away for a heavy bag of coin. He needed to eat, a place to sleep, the most basic of necessities. He’d never had to live in that manner before – counting every sovereign, carefully budgeting every expenditure, all so that he might have enough to keep himself alive – and it only made him realize how pampered and protected he’d been in the Imperium. It was the first time he’d really ever gave it any thought: how lucky he’d been, and how unfortunate so many around him were, all due to the luck of their respective births. 

“I’ll figure something out,” he added, hoping that his nonchalant tone would throw the Inquisitor off his trail.

“You don’t even like your family,” Trevelyan said. His tone was somewhat indelicate. Dorian felt the pinprick sensation on the backs of his arms. “Why would you want it back?”

_As if it were so unfathomable I might want a piece of myself, of my homeland, back in my possession._

“Because it’s mine,” Dorian was careful to tread lightly, to not challenge the Inquisitor with a snide comment or cutting remark. All things considered, he was having a wonderful evening, up until this point. “And it shouldn’t be … passed around like candy.” 

“That’s the only reason?” Trevelyan said. Dorian was a tad surprised. Trevelyan had never quite tried to pry him open with such a rough hand – at least not when it came to personal questions, he had no problem spreading Dorian’s legs apart and splitting him in two with his cock – and Dorian was quickly losing patience.

“It’s reason enough,” he said darkly, no longer hiding his annoyance. “Leave it be.”

“For something that seems so important, I’d have expected more than, ‘I’ll get it somehow.’” 

Dorian felt the sting of Trevelyan’s criticism. Of course, he was right, but he might have been a tad gentler. All things considered, it had been less than a day that Dorian had even known Ponchard was willing to negotiate the return of the amulet. It’s not like he’d had weeks to plot the perfect scheme to win its return without the involvement of the Inquisition. He looked up at Trevelyan, whose eyes were wide with concern and caring. _Kaffas, like a blighted puppy._

He stopped himself for a moment, and breathed. Trevelyan cared, obviously, and had gone through the pains of showing that time and time again. Regardless of how his questions might sound, his intent was good; of that, Dorian could be certain.

“It’s not the only thing that’s important,” Dorian protested. “ _I_ lost the amulet. I may not have your resources, but I can’t ask you to… You have too many people asking you for everything under the sun. I won’t be one of them.”

He picked up his wine glass and drained its contents in one fell gulp, instantly regretting that he wasted such a delightful treat in his frustration. He slammed the glass down on the table haphazardly, and turned toward the fire.

“I’m afraid I’ve gone and ruined our dinner,” Trevelyan murmured, following Dorian’s gaze into the flames. Dorian turned to look at him, and saw his brow creased with sadness. He wondered what was going on behind his eyes, in the back of his mind. He wondered if it was as deep and confusing as all of the conflicting emotions he himself was feeling.

“Now, now,” Dorian turned back to face him. “Let’s forget all that, and pretend that conversation hadn’t happened. This was such a lovely gesture, and I’m very appreciative.” He reached a hand out, and Trevelyan took it, squeezing lightly, before interlocking their fingers. 

“Alright,” Trevelyan replied. 

They finished their meal, and stripped themselves naked, curling up in bed together, watching the light of the fire dances across the room and their bodies. Trevelyan drew runes into Dorian’s skin absentmindedly, and planted kisses in the palm of Dorian’s hand, as they lay side by side, their stomachs filled and their heads busy with the thoughts neither dared to express. 

Dorian could tolerate the gifts and the attention he received from the Inquisitor, when he hadn’t asked for them. He couldn’t control the man – no one could, it seemed – and therefore, the only thing he could do was to accept each one with grace. He was afraid, not only of insulting the Inquisitor by refusing his kindness, but also of hurting his feelings. He saw the look of sadness as Trevelyan gazed into the flames earlier than evening. It was almost beyond reason, that Trevelyan should be so upset by the turn of events. Dorian pondered what it might mean, where it had come from, and how long it had been there, for the sadness was far deeper than the mild inconvenience of a spoilt dinner. 

Trevelyan had mustered the energy to roll on to his side, snaking his leg between Dorian’s, and nipping gently at his shoulder. 

“Might you have room for dessert?” He asked playfully, his green eyes glinting wickedly in the darkness.

“Always,” Dorian replied. 

They rolled around, Trevelyan’s mouth taking Dorian’s cock while Dorian greedily thrust his tongue into Trevelyan’s hole. Trevelyan pushed Dorian back against the bed, and slithered down onto Dorian’s cock, his taut ass wrapped tightly around every inch of Dorian as Dorian pulsated inside of him. He wasted no time in bouncing up and down in Dorian’s lap, drawing gasps of ecstasy from his own throat and Dorian’s. Dorian dug his thumbs into Trevelyan’s hips. 

“Someone’s eager,” Dorian muttered.

“Always,” Trevelyan replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a busy couple weeks, kids. 
> 
> But life has been good, for the most part! I've been spending a lot of the time at work (but I love it!) and the beach and playing volleyball and hanging out with friends. It's all been super awesome. So I'm sorry I haven't been able to update much, but I kind of become a different person in the summer. I'll get back to school at the end of August and will end up updating this every three days like I had been a few months ago. Haha.
> 
> Anyway, on to the story!
> 
> Trevelyan and Dorian's relationship is coming to a head, and that'll all get prompted by a certain visit to a certain merchant with a certain amulet. WARNING: Canon divergence will ensue, but I love what I have plotted out, and I'm hoping you'll be into it! Trevelyan's getting better at being the Inquisitor - and we're about to see just how much better that really is.
> 
> Also, EVERYONE IS GOING TO THE MUTHAFUCKIN' BALL. WHY Bioware did not do this is beyond me. All the characters are set about the room in completely different locations - it's not like it would have been hard to have all 9 companions there. Same as Calpernia and Sampson being available - it should have been both of them, with a focus on one over the other depending on the path you took. 
> 
> And Trevelyan's such a sweetheart. He's got a lot of feelings running through his head. You might get a glimpse of the reasoning behind his little kindnesses and gifts to Dorian, when Trevelyan falls into the Fade. That's going to be a bit of an ordeal for the poor boy, but I think I've mentioned that before. I don't want to spoil my plans too much. 
> 
> UP NEXT! Val Royeaux! Visiting Vivienne's seamstress for fittings for the uniforms for the Masquerade! Ponchard and Trevelyan in a duel of wits for the Birthright! And finally, a long-ass sex scene and the question we've all been waiting for: _what exactly is their relationship?! ___
> 
> __P.S. - the more we get into Orlais, and the more we head toward the Winter Palace, the more French you're getting. I need to brush up on my own, regardless. I will be posting translations at the bottom, when I deem necessary (I'm not translating every, 'Bonjour!') but if you're impatient, Google translate will do a fine enough job._ _


	21. The Birthright and the Lovers

“I am seriously considering leaving the Inquisition.”

“You’ll charge headlong into a fight with a dragon, but formal attire is your undoing?”

“Arms down!” the seamstress screeched, and Bull complied. 

“Worse than a _tamassran_ ,” Bull muttered, complying without hesitation. 

“At least they trained you well,” Trevelyan laughed, as one of the assistants measured his inseam. 

Dorian felt the hands slide down his sides, pulling the measuring tape across his waist. “You have nearly perfect proportions,” the small dwarf who had been tasked with taking his measurements grunted, absentmindedly.

“Nearly?!” Dorian feigned indignation. “I’ve never been so insulted in my life!” He gazed back to see Trevelyan smiling at him.

“As close to perfect as I’ve ever seen,” she responded.

“Nice try,” Dorian chuckled. She frowned up at him. Trevelyan mouthed silently from across the room.

_She hasn’t gotten to your ass just yet._

“ _Kaffas_.” 

“What?” the dwarf looked up at him. 

“Nothing,” he murmured. 

The entire group was standing around the small workshop that belonged to Vivienne’s seamstress – the elderly woman with knotted hands currently swatting at Iron Bull – in order to have their measurements taken for the uniforms they would wear at the Masquerade at the Winter Palace. Each of them would take turns, being measured by the seamstress, or by her three apprentices. She, of course, had no need to take Vivienne’s measurements: those were already on file. But she’d taken great interest in measuring Bull personally. _I like a challenge_ , she purred in her Orlesian drawl. 

“Make sure to taper the waist – and the pants, please, don’t be afraid to make sure they are snug,” Dorian directed.

She laughed. “I noticed how well-tailored your robes were. I figured you’d have specific requests.”

“I see I’m in good hands.”

“The best,” she murmured, to avoid being heard by her fellow apprentices. 

Josephine was pulling double duty, having her measurements taken while she quashed fabric suggestions as quickly as the workers could bring them before her. Patterned fabrics were an obvious non-starter, and anything too shimmery, too ornate, too luxurious was immediately pooh-poohed with a quick word, or the wave of her free hand. 

“They are absolutely lovely, to be certain, but hardly appropriate for the occasion,” she said, shooing the assistant away, his arms filled with spools of fabric in every color. “What we need,” she called after him, “is something striking. It must be bold, yet austere.” 

“Do you have a specific image in mind?” Trevelyan asked.

“Yes,” she responded, providing no further clarification. Dorian heard the assistant whimper from the back room of the _atelier_ , afraid of the implications of Josephine’s statement. He probably knew better than anyone that fabric couldn’t be woven from imagination, and had probably faced the wrath of several nobles who’d felt otherwise. 

“That’s helpful,” Trevelyan muttered. “Can you at least give me some idea? A color?” 

“I initially was leaning toward a deep blue,” Dorian heard the quick footfalls of the assistant, running towards a switch of fabric, “but I’ve recently been thinking that a bright red would be the most ideal choice. Celene is known to favor blues, and inadvertently matching the Empress’ chosen hue would be disastrous.” More footfalls and quiet cursing coming from the back. The dwarf chuckled underneath him as she measured his inseam. “The current tastes of the Court have leaned toward more subtle shades – light creams, dark emeralds, muted goldenrod, and the like. Barring unforeseen circumstances, it would be almost assured that we’d be the only ones in such a color, which would increase the impact of our uniformity exponentially.”

“Andraste’s tit,” Sera mumbled, turning to Varric. “How long d’you figure it’d take her to decide whether or not to take a piss?” 

“I don’t think she does,” Varric joked. “I’ve never seen someone so good at sitting and listening to nobles blather on for hours.” 

Varric had handled his fitting without fuss and only a few crass jokes. He was looking forward to the ball, or at least, for the opportunity to find out whether or not his publisher had been lying to him about the popularity of his works among the Orlesian nobility. 

“If he has, it’ll just be the same old game. He feigns ignorance, I call bullshit, he claims he has no money, I threaten a Carta shakedown, he buckles and pays me my due.”

“Why not find a new publisher?” Blackwall asked. He’d grumbled the entire way to Val Royeaux, and hadn’t stopped since they’d arrived. His brow was set heavily over his eyes, the lines even more stern and severe than usual. He and Dorian spoke little outside the confines of necessity, and even then, with only the most cursory of nods, so it wasn’t as though Dorian was particularly longing for Blackwall’s absent voice.

“Because we’ve been working together so long, I know all his tricks. Better the demon that you know, and all that.” 

“All finished,” the dwarf said sunnily. 

“Don’t forget – tapered, snug,” Dorian reminded her, wagging a finger.

“Of course not.”

Trevelyan had saved Cole and Sera for last – Sera, because he’d figured she’d whine herself out waiting for everyone else to be measured, and Cole, because he was bound to alienate someone by tugging at their innermost pain and ripping it out, like a loose thread that keeps unspooling until the whole garment comes undone.

Sera fidgeted miserably, cursing underneath her breath. Cassandra walked over in front of her. 

“Stand still,” Cassandra said, commanding Sera 

“Thanks for that,” Sera replied, “bloody brilliant advice.”

“I know you aren’t looking forward to attending the ball,” Cassandra let the sympathy flow into her voice. “I can’t say I’m not of the same mind.”

“Yeah, but _you’ve_ had to do all this. Hand of the Divine, and all that. Not to mention you know exactly how many butts are before you in line to the throne in _Nevarra_.”

“I know this is nearly unfathomable to you, but sometimes, we have to do things we’d prefer to avoid altogether,” she said.

“Excuse me, Lady Montilyet?” The assistant had emerged from the back room, three spools of bright red fabric in his arms. No patterns or frills, just simple, quality cottons and wools. 

“Sera, look at it this way,” Trevelyan interrupted.

“The one nearest to you? Cherry, yes?” Josephine smiled.

“Yes, milady,” the assistant breathed, hopeful.

“A twinge too dark, I’m afraid.” The assistant sighed in response.

“What way is that?” Sera asked.

“The Winter Palace will be filled to the brim with Orlesian nobles. You get to watch them, see how they treat the servants, learn their names,” Trevelyan offered.

“Are either of the remaining two sufficient, milady?” The assistant offered them up hopefully. Josephine took them both in her hand, and rubbed the fabric gently.

“A vermillion, and a crimson,” she murmured to herself.

“And?” Sera asked, not quite understanding the point Trevelyan was trying to make.

“You say you want to help your people? What better way than to learn about the nobles who are doing them wrong? You might be able to find something about them that will help you down the road.”

“Oh!” Sera squealed. “Clever, you.”

“Inquisitor, I need your assistance,” Josephine called across the room. Trevelyan continued to stare at Sera, whose eyes had lit up with wickedness at the realization that there was, at the very least, some benefit to her required attendance at the ball. “I’m having a bit of trouble deciding between these two final-“

“The one on the right,” Trevelyan interrupted.

“You could at least pretend to look at them,” Josephine sighed, exasperated. Trevelyan turned his head.

“The one on the right is the vermillion, correct? That’s the one I want.” 

Dorian chuckled to himself. Trevelyan had become more adept at juggling competing interests, and he certainly should have, considering a thousand voices seemed to perpetually scream out at him for attention. A room of about twenty people should be nothing for a man who regularly disemboweled demons.

“Very well,” Josephine smiled. “Now, onto the waist sash.”

Cassandra made that disgusted noise in the back of her throat. Sera moaned loudly. Even Bull was frustrated with the current pace of events, rolling his one eye. 

“One piece of fabric down, twenty more to go,” Varric quipped. The Inquisitor smiled gracefully at the group. 

“Are you looking forward to the Ball?” The apprentice who was taking Cole’s measurements asked.

“Oh, yes!” He responded sunnily. “I hope there are many lovely hats!”

___

 

Thankfully, once they’d managed to settle on the vermillion wool, the rest of the materials fell into place rather painlessly. A rich, royal blue waist sash was seen as enough of a tip off to Celene’s preferred palette, without running the risk of outshining the Empress. Light tan leather, for the shoulder pads, the belt, and the gloves. Gold piping and silver buttons. Darker leather for the pants, darker still for the boots. 

The seamstress had offered to create a mock-up of the garment in a few days’ time, so they might have a better sense of how the completed product would look, largely due to Vivienne’s insistence. _Your patronage has always been much appreciated, Madame de Fer. It would be my pleasure_ , the elderly woman had offered, her spindly fingers reaching out to clasp Vivienne’s hands in her own. 

They’d all been happy to escape the confines of the _atelier_ , breathing in the fresh air that blew through the streets of Val Royeaux. They’d been largely excused from any official duties for the remainder of the day, and allowed to roam the streets at their leisure. Sera and Cole vanished almost instantaneously, the former quickly blending into the crowd, and the latter dissipating with a puff. _Who knows what sort of damage he could cause in a city as big as this._

Bull, Varric, and Solas went off in search of a quiet tavern, and Vivienne was quick to leave the group as well, hurriedly gliding off through the streets, apparently late for a meeting with a member of the Empress’ coterie. Blackwall grumbled about returning to their shared hotel, loath to spend any time out and about in _bloody_ Val Royeaux. 

Leliana had decided to drag Cullen out to a restaurant near the docks. “Come on, Commander. I’ve heard they serve the most sumptuous _pâté_ in all Orlais.”

“Are you sure you require my company? There are several matters that I ought to attend to while I am here.” 

“You’ll have plenty of time to deal with your affairs later,” she teased, as they drifted away.

Dorian looked out over the sunny streets, and sniffed at the smell of fresh bread hanging in the air. He’d love nothing more than to stroll aimlessly through the marketplace, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. He’d never had the opportunity to visit Val Royeaux before. He wanted to lose himself in the vast, intricate streets that crisscrossed through the city, to count all the ways in which Val Royeaux and Minrathous were completely different, and all the ways in which they were exactly the same. 

But Trevelyan needed some assistance. Josephine, apparently, was in a bit of a snafu, and the Inquisitor needed to make an appearance, in order to motivate some Comte into giving Josephine whatever scant information he had regarding the apparent deaths of Josephine’s couriers. Dorian smelled a trap all the way back at Skyhold, when Trevelyan had first told him about the situation.

 _And why, exactly, would I need to attend?_ Dorian asked.

 _I just thought you might enjoy playing bodyguard. Since you have the best I’ve ever seen._ Trevelyan murmured, digging his fingers into Dorian’s waist.

 _You mean decoy_ , Dorian argued playfully.

 _As if I’d let anything happen to you_ , Trevelyan whispered into Dorian’s ear, before Dorian grew impatient and turned, pressing his lips into Trevelyan’s, sinking his weight onto the man below him, tugging the covers over their heads as Trevelyan’s chuckle floated past his ears.

“I’m sorry,” Trevelyan murmured from Dorian’s side, as Dorian looked up to catch his eyes. “I know how badly you wanted to go exploring. You’ll have time, after we’ve finished up with meeting the Comte.”

“ _I’ll_ have time? You don’t plan on joining me?” 

Trevelyan turned his head to look at the throngs that passed by them, their fur collars pulled tight against the cool autumn air, their faces obscured by their glittering masks made of precious metals or porcelain. Their silken dresses blew gently in the wind, much like Trevelyan’s hair, which hung loose around his chin, stirring with the slightest provocation.

“If you’d like,” he said quietly. He smiled lightly at Dorian. 

_Something is wrong._

Dorian felt the pit in his stomach immediately. 

“We should get moving. We have to make a stop prior to meeting the Comte. It’s on the way.” He turned back to nod at Josephine and Cassandra, who walked toward the pair.

They marched through the streets at a brisk pace, focused and intent, with hardly any words spoken between them, save for the brief directions that punctuated their march. Dorian could feel the tension emanating off Josephine. She apparently had absolutely no idea what she might learn at the residence of this Comte Boisvert. From what he could gather, Dorian assumed that she was hoping whoever – or whatever – had killed her couriers wasn’t lying in wait for her behind the doors of the Comte’s estate.

More important, something had Trevelyan spooked, and Dorian was positive it had absolutely nothing to do with Josephine. Trevelyan had been slightly tense on their travels to Val Royeaux, but Dorian had been able to chalk it up to the endless drilling that Leliana, Josephine, and Vivienne had been conducting, all in preparation for the Grand Masquerade. Orlesian dining etiquette, how to bow properly and to whom he ought to bow, the popular and classical dances he ought to know, and of course, the lists of all the names of all the nobles who might possibly be in attendance.

 _I have to memorize all of them?!_ He’d protested. _How is that even possible?_

 _It would be easier, if you’d started when you’d formally accepted the title of Inquisitor, like I’d suggested_ , Leliana had teased. 

_Do you even know them all?_ He launched the question at the three women.

Vivienne and Leliana turned their heads toward Josephine, who smiled politely, before rattling through a list of nobles with alacrity, her voice a pleasant singsong as she counted off the _Ducs et Princes et Marquis et Comtes et Vicomtes_. Trevelyan sat in silence, his brow kneading itself into worry, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down aggressively as he swallowed hard. Dorian couldn’t help but be impressed – and he’d thought his ability to recite his well-cultivated lineage was something special – but here Josephine was, speeding through a list of names, longer than any he’d had to memorize, a list which contained positively none of Josephine’s blood relatives.

Vivienne had mouthed along silently, her head bobbing slightly from side to side as she stared into the evening sky. 

But here, this – all this was different. Trevelyan had kept his head forward the entire time, his hair dangling down and obscuring his face from Dorian’s view. He was hiding something, clearly. 

“What’s going on?” Dorian asked bluntly. 

“Nothing at all,” Trevelyan said, wholly unconvincing. He didn’t move his face to look at Dorian. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Dorian growled quietly.

“Inquisitor, the meeting place is just to your left,” Josephine said, her voice small and tentative, afraid to interrupt the pair. Dorian looked over the Inquisitor, past the stalls and the market. All that was there was a dark corner, shielded from the thoroughfare, and a man, standing just underneath the cover of shadow, his thin frame hunched slightly. Dorian caught a glint of the bronze mask that covered his face.

_Ponchard._

“ _You didn’t_ ,” Dorian felt the sting of his anger undercutting his words. His worry had solidified into kindling, which ignited in fury.

“Come on,” Trevelyan quickly turned, and began to march toward Ponchard. Dorian raced after him, and grabbed his arm, violently spinning him around, and pointing a finger in his face. 

“ _The audacity_ -“ Dorian started in, feeling his nostrils flare with anger.

“I know,” Trevelyan said, his eyes sad and apologetic. “You have every right to be angry, and I’m willing to listen to whatever it is you have to say to me. Can we at least talk to Ponchard first?” 

Dorian considered his options. Quickly.

“Fine.”

Causing a scene in the middle of Val Royeaux wouldn’t win him any fans, clearly. But he was furious, and he wanted nothing more than to vent all of his frustration in a steady stream of expletives, aimed straight at Trevelyan. They continued walking toward Ponchard. Trevelyan _knew_ he had stepped well over the line, and all of his nervousness over the course of the past week or so was because he had been keeping this from Dorian. 

_It’s hardly the worst thing anyone has done to you. At least he wasn’t plotting a blood magic ritual._

But he’d kept a secret from Dorian. A secret about something that Dorian had explicitly asked Trevelyan to _not_ involve himself in. Sure, everyone loved to play the game – is a lie as bad as an omission? – but right now, Dorian had no interest in parsing out just how badly Trevelyan had shat the bed. 

_Sweet, caring Trevelyan_. He held no secrets. Dorian would ask, and Trevelyan would answer, without hesitation, without fear of judgment or reprisal. Dorian wondered when he’d learned this new little trick. Was this the magic of the Anchor, seeping in? Or was it the Inquisitor subsuming Trevelyan, a leader of men, the _Herald of Andraste_ , ready to carve his place in the world with a million little secrets and half-told truths?

“Inquisitor!” Ponchard greeted him, his sniveling little voice ringing out across the cobblestones. Trevelyan immediately squared his shoulders and dropped the wounded puppy act. He was no longer Gabriel, he was the _Inquisitor_ , acting in his official capacity. _The myth, not the man_. Dorian wanted nothing more than to grind him to a pulp. He was positively sickened that Trevelyan had reduced himself to this – bartering for the return of his Birthright with this festering axe wound who called himself a merchant. “Good, good, this is exactly what I was hoping for.”

“Is that why we’re here?” Dorian asked, turning toward Trevelyan. Was it all a lie? _The fittings, helping Josephine, raiding the lodgings of that Merchant from Vyrantium._ Was it all just some ruse to get Dorian to Val Royeaux and minimize suspicion? “I said I wanted to do this myself. I don’t want to be indebted to anyone. Least of all you.”

He let the words find their mark, and they had. Trevelyan eyes dropped momentarily in sadness. He could hardly look at Dorian. Dorian felt the urge to comfort him rise up, a quiet voice in the back of his mind that didn’t want to hurt Trevelyan, regardless of how much he’d hurt Dorian. Luckily, that twisted little voice interrupted Dorian’s internal monologue, stopping Dorian from tearing into Trevelyan on the spot. 

“I apologize, but that won’t be possible,” Ponchard spoke, and Trevelyan righted himself again, his face calm, yet severe, ready to square off against the merchant. “Do forgive me, Inquisitor, but when I heard of your… _association_ with _Monsieur_ Pavus, I could not resist.”

The insinuation oozed out of his mouth, and Dorian heard Cassandra make that noise in the back of her throat. Even she was disgusted by the display in front of her, and she’d hardly been Dorian’s biggest fan as of late. Cullen had been right. The gossip outside of Skyhold, the scrutiny, it was far worse than he’d expected. He’d thought the walls were paper thin, but lo, how he’d been mistaken. He had been insulated, and now he was exposed. So was Trevelyan, but he hadn’t flinched at the suggestion, as vile as it had been. 

“It’s not coin I seek for the amulet, but influence. Influence which you posses, but which the young man does not. Provided, of course, you desire the amulet. For your friend.”

Another lurid suggestion. Trevelyan remained stone-faced. The ire he’d directed at Trevelyan had quickly been turned toward Ponchard. _No matter_ , Dorian thought. _I’m sure I can muster up some more later, when I deal with you_. He glared at Trevelyan out of the corner of his eye. 

“You want something from me. What would you like?” His tone was calm, reasonable, tinged with that disarming earnestness. Dorian wanted to punch him square in his jaw. 

“The League de Celestine is an organization of wealthy nobleman in Orlais. I would join, but I lack the lineage. If someone like you applied pressure, they would admit me. _That_ would be worth the return of the amulet.” 

“What do you think, Dorian?” Trevelyan asked. He spoke in the voice of the Inquisitor. Dorian suddenly felt cold, like the fire in his blood had frozen instantaneously. He’d never spoken to Dorian that way. The sudden chill certainly hadn’t stilled any of Dorian’s anger, and he had to catch himself before he opened his mouth and roared at Trevelyan. 

“Leave the man be,” he breathed, his voice fraught with anger, but at a respectable volume. At least. “I got myself into this; I should get myself out of it.” _Like I’d asked in the first place. If only you’d learned to listen._

“Perhaps you should accept your friend’s help, _Monsieur_.” The cockroach said, barely suppressing the joy in his voice. He had the Inquisitor right where he wanted him to be, and Dorian was enraged. Trevelyan had allowed himself to be caught up in this pathetic worm’s machinations, and for what? Dorian demanded that Trevelyan keep his nose out for exactly this reason. Part of him – the lesser part – took a sick delight in being proven right. But at the moment, Trevelyan was of little concern. Dorian would have plenty of time to strangle him later. 

“ _Kaffas!_ ” Dorian lost whatever control he had exerted over himself mere moments ago, the words flying from his lips like venom. “I know what you think, and he’s not my friend, he’s –“ 

Trevelyan turned to him, his eyebrows furrowed, a severe look on his face. Dorian had studied his features, time and time again, as they lay in the bed tucked away in the tallest tower of Skyhold. Dorian had seem him play at anger, seen him actually angry, and this wasn’t that. Was Trevelyan… _hurt?_

“Nevermind what he is,” Dorian muttered. He didn’t have time to worry about how Trevelyan felt. Not when Trevelyan had been so callous toward his own feelings. 

“As you desire. Even so, that is the price. I shall accept no other.” 

Trevelyan’s eyes narrowed. He stared at the ground, intently considering the cobblestones before him. For a second, Dorian wondered if he would deny Ponchard, if he would politely tell the scheming merchant ‘no, thank you,’ and walk away. The thought almost infuriated Dorian more than Trevelyan’s decision to come meet Ponchard in the first place. _To come all this way, just to say no…_

Trevelyan took a step forward. He towered over Ponchard. 

“You must not know who I am, even beyond being the Inquisitor.” Trevelyan’s voice had run cold and dark. _Oh, so he’s going to bully Ponchard into giving up the amulet. The classic Trevelyan arm-twist._ The technique had lost all its charm, not that it had much to begin with. The last time they’d witnessed this, Trevelyan had been flailing about, attempting to close the Breach, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to save the world, or himself. But now, he was the Inquisitor, who had built a base of power in a castle on a hill, staring down a merchant in a back alley in Val Royeaux. Before, he twisted arms because he had no other option. But now? 

_Maybe he is a tyrant after all._

“You are a Trevelyan, Monsieur. A man of noble blood. A man of honor,” Ponchard’s voice began to quaver. He clearly doubted the truth of the words, even as he continued to utter them.

“A man who could destroy your hopes of social climbing.” 

Trevelyan laid bare before him the consequences of his little gambit. As much as Dorian would normally delight in watching Ponchard squirm, seeing such a feat accomplished by Trevelyan’s hand, in this manner… 

It brought Dorian no joy. 

Trevelyan had undermined his autonomy, gone against his wishes, and now stolen the joy of crushing his enemy out from underneath him. 

Anger is a simple emotion. Quick to flare up, and quick to die back down, without anything more kindling to keep the flames alive. Dorian looked over to Trevelyan, who stood, defiant and unknowable, his brow relaxed, his lips a taut line. The flames had been extinguished, and all that was left was the cool autumn air, and the emptiness of disappointment. Trevelyan – the Inquisitor – had been so insensitive. And he was about to strong-arm a merchant into returning the amulet. All of this, for Dorian. 

He’d questioned, long ago, the lengths to which Trevelyan would go to achieve his goals, who he would mow over in his attempt to get what he wanted. All of this was before he’d had the chance to get to know Trevelyan, before kissing him for the first time, before the night they’d spent together in his cabin in Haven, before watching him die and witnessing his triumphant return, before all the months they’d spent together above and below the sheets in the bed in Trevelyan’s room at Skyhold. 

He’d thought he’d settled on his answer. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten Trevelyan quite figured out. 

“Forgive me, Your Worship,” Ponchard whimpered, as though he were anticipating a physical assault. Dorian certainly felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach. “If it is your desire, I will have the amulet delivered to Skyhold immediately. Please, just think of me kindly. I meant no offense.” 

Trevelyan’s lips turned up into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, as they continued to stare down at Ponchard. _Wonderful. You’ll have your amulet back where it belongs._ He thought he’d be happy to hear the news, but he couldn’t be more miserable. He’d suffered in silence long enough. He went to open his mouth, but Trevelyan had beaten him. 

“Josephine, how hard would it be to procure Ponchard an invitation to the League de Celestine?” 

_What?!_

Josephine looked at Trevelyan uneasily. “It…” she paused, her voice uncertain. “I imagine it would require a few letters sent to the right people, but we count several allies among the League’s membership.” 

“So, you’d be able to accomplish this easily?” Trevelyan asked. 

“Relatively speaking, yes,” Josephine replied. 

“Alright, then. Please be sure to arrange for the League to extend an invitation to him as soon as possible,” Trevelyan said, as calmly as courteously as possible. 

The group stood in collective shock, unaware of what exactly had transpired that had changed Trevelyan’s mind. One minute, he had Ponchard well under heel, and the next, he was giving him what he wanted? 

“My apologies, Your Worship, but… I don’t understand?” Ponchard whinnied. 

Trevelyan sighed, and looked down for a moment to collect himself, before turning his gaze back to Ponchard. 

“As you very well know, the Inquisition is growing in power and influence. As the Inquisitor, it falls on me to look after the whole, to make sure that the alliances we forge are strong and beneficial, and that any endorsements we may provide, no matter how small, are given to parties deserving of the honor, whose actions will not reflect poorly on the Inquisition.” 

_Maker._

“So, I’m sure you can understand why I would be hesitant to provide such an endorsement to a man who was attempting to blackmail me, for all intents and purposes, into supporting his bid for membership in a prestigious Orlesian guild.” 

Ponchard hadn’t quite straightened himself out, and his bottom lip continued to quiver, ever so slightly. 

“However, you have shown me that you are savvy enough to know when you have been bested, and there are many in your position who are either too foolish or too prideful to back down. It speaks well of you, that you recognize the value of maintaining positive relationships with potential allies over personal gain.” 

“Thank you, Your Worship,” Ponchard replied, shakily. 

“Because you have shown discernment in your dealings, I will be supporting your bid for membership within the League. I expect you to keep your word, and return the amulet to me without any strings attached, just as we will be sure to reach out to our contacts. As soon as possible,” Trevelyan directed. 

“Of course, Your Worship.” 

“And while I cannot control your dealings, I would suggest that you avoid blackmail in the future.” 

“Yes, Your Worship.” _How deferential he’d become._

“Thank you, Ponchard. I’m glad this worked out for both our benefit.” Dorian scoffed loudly, not attempting to hide his frustration. He turned to walk away. 

_How wonderful, indeed_. Another coup for Trevelyan. Dorian would have been proud, thinking of how well Trevelyan had grown into his role as Inquisitor, if he wasn’t so disgusted by this entire display. Trevelyan had become aware of his power, of his place in the world, and he’d used that leverage for Dorian. The rumors that had spread outward from Skyhold, through Orlais, were true. Dorian’s influence over the Inquisitor had become undue, even if it was indirect. _Or completely unwelcome._

Dorian could count a thousand reasons why all of this was problematic, but most painful was how easily Trevelyan had ignored his pleas. Dorian didn’t want Trevelyan involved in this mess, because of all the attendant problems it would create, but Trevelyan, _true to form_ , charged headlong into a situation without considering the repercussions – for himself, as the Inquisitor, for the Inquisition as a whole, and for Dorian and the Inquisitor’s relationship. _Whatever that was._

_Whatever it would end up being now._

“Dorian,” The Inquisitor’s voice came from behind. He’d heard his footfalls moving quickly to catch up with him, but had ignored him. He didn’t deserve the courtesy of Dorian’s attention. “Please, say something?” 

“I don’t want to be in your debt. I don’t want to be in anyone’s debt,” Dorian murmured, afraid of drawing any more attention to himself. What he’d love more than anything was a private room, far removed for the eyes and ears of the citizens of Val Royeaux, where he’d be able to jab his finger into Trevelyan’s chest and let him know exactly what he was thinking. 

“You don’t think…?” 

_Damned mind reader._

“I don’t want to discuss it!” Dorian huffed, as he picked up his pace. He heard Trevelyan’s footfalls slow behind him. _Good._

“I must admit,” Josephine began quietly, “I’m surprised with how deftly you handled that situation.” Dorian turned back to look at her, his eyes wide with anger. Trevelyan looked at him, before turning back to his Ambassador. 

“Now’s not the time for compliments, Josie.” 

____ 

_Standing outside the room like muscle-for-hire, and with Cassandra, no less. Might as well add insult to injury. How wonderfully this day turned out._

Trevelyan and Josephine had gone in meet with this Comte Boisvert, who’d requested that he speak only with the pair of them, leaving Dorian and Cassandra out in the cold, so to speak. Not that Dorian was looking for an excuse to be by Trevelyan’s side; quite the opposite, in fact. 

Dorian looked around at the lavish décor of the Orlesian chateau. Out the window down the hall, Dorian could see the motion of the crowd, the quiet undulation of people moving through the streets, bathed in the light of the mid afternoon sun. Dorian leaned against his staff and sighed. If only he were one of them, right now, traveling through the streets. If only he’d gotten his way, and had been allowed to part ways with the group. Everything would have been fine. 

_Kaffas._

“Are you still upset?” Cassandra asked delicately. 

_KAFFAS._

“I’d said I’d rather not discuss it,” Dorian spat, hoping that his words would be the end of this conversation. _Not bloody likely._ Trevelyan and Josephine had only been in the Comte’s company for but a moment. If Cassandra was willing to start in this quickly, there was no chance she’d drop her line of questioning. 

“It is unlike you to reserve your feelings,” Cassandra smiled. Dorian momentarily considered casting a Horror spell on the Seeker, to derive whatever momentary enjoyment he might in watching her reaction to the spirits he summoned to torment her. 

_She probably wouldn’t even flinch._

“This was beyond the pale, Cassandra. Now, leave it be!” Dorian warned, each word a staccato threat. 

“You’re being dramatic.” 

“I most certainly am not!” Dorian turned to her. “Trevelyan reached out to Ponchard behind my back, and against my wishes,” Dorian had hushed his voice to a quiet roar. “But, of course, everyone will assume that the _big, bad Tevinter_ has seduced another favor from the Inquisitor, another bout of preferential treatment earned through illicit means.” 

Cassandra had dropped the smile, adopting her usual stony visage, as she stared at Dorian, while he made a complete ass of himself. He immediately regretted his tirade after he’d completed it, and wished he hadn’t given up as much as he had with those few words. 

_See? This is why you ought to stay quiet when you get emotional, Pavus._

“Dorian, I don’t know what to tell you,” she sighed. Dorian was about to respond with some sort of pithy one-liner, a callous and brash attempt to bat Cassandra back, but he thought better of it. The last time he’d been so foolish, he’d embarrassed himself in front of Trevelyan, who was thankfully completely oblivious. In the interim, Cassandra had found her words. 

“Trevelyan doesn’t seem to care one iota about the gossip. Why should you?” 

Dorian looked at her, as he attempted to stop his lips from moving. Thankfully, the door between them opened, and from it emerged a nobleman, who politely nodded his head and quickly made his way toward the exit of the manor. 

“Was that the Comte?” Dorian asked. 

“It wasn’t,” Trevelyan’s voice rang out from inside the room. Dorian and Cassandra looked at each other for the briefest of moments, before Cassandra turned and dove into the room, Dorian close in tow. Thankfully, they found the Inquisitor and Josephine unharmed. 

“If that wasn’t the Comte, then who…” Cassandra started. 

“An assassin. From the House of Repose. Apparently, Lady Montilyet has a contract on her life.” 

Dorian looked over his shoulder toward Josephine, who was kneeled over by a large armoire, which shook back and forth. Dorian could hear mumbling coming from inside. 

“ _Fucking_ Orlesians,” Trevelyan muttered under his breath. 

___ 

The Inquisition had taken a small hotel on the fringes of the city – _Nothing too ostentatious_ , Trevelyan had insisted – to which they had returned after dealing with Josephine’s assassin predicament. Dorian had turned right around and gone to wander the streets of Val Royeaux, as he had intended, but it was a joyless effort. His mind, weighted down by all that had occurred earlier in the day, refused to focus on anything else. 

If anything, he was thankful for the fresh, cool air. It helped to cool his anger, but unfortunately, all of that fire congealed into a nauseous disappointment that roiled around in the pit of his stomach. It made meandering through the streets an unbearable task. _Finally, in the midst of civilization, and you can’t even enjoy yourself. One more thing Trevelyan has ruined for you._ Dorian wrapped his scarf tighter, and looked out at the setting sun. He turned and headed back in the direction from which he’d come, to return to the hotel. 

When he arrived, he headed straight for the room he was to be sharing with Trevelyan. Thankfully, Trevelyan was smart enough to give him space. _At least he’s not a complete idiot_ , Dorian thought. He closed the door behind him, and leaned back against it. His heart sank to the floor, and he didn’t have the fortitude to bend over and pick it back up. 

He made his way to a sofa in the corner of the room, and draped himself across it. He rested his head back against the arm of the chair, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t quite ready to sift through all of his thoughts and emotions, as they bubbled up inside of him. 

He managed to quiet his mind for long enough to drift off, before waking up to a restrained knock on the door. 

_Your dinner’s getting cold_. Trevelyan’s voice, muffled by the door between them. 

_I’m not hungry_ , Dorian lied. He heard Trevelyan’s hand clasp the doorknob, and watched as it began to turn, before abruptly spinning back into place. Trevelyan’s steps grew quieter, as he turned to walk away. 

He ran his hand through his hair gently, and sat upright in the sofa, his legs dangling off the edge. He wanted to grab a bottle of wine, but that would involve stepping out into the common room, and he didn’t want to look at Trevelyan. 

Of course, Trevelyan was wrong, no question about that. But Dorian couldn’t help but feel that he might have overreacted. Of course, at the time, it hardly seemed that way. But Dorian did have a tendency to veer toward the overdramatic, and a propensity for directing his ire at the wrong target, not to mention his uncanny ability for alienating people with his cutting words in the heat of the moment. 

If he kept it up, at this rate, he’d be out of potential allies in the South by the end of the year. _And then what, Pavus? Ship yourself back to the Imperium? Watch from afar as the Inquisition defeats Corypheus? Render meaningless each and every thing you’ve sacrificed to make it here?_

Clinging to the notion that Trevelyan had been wrong brought him no warmth, no fire. He wanted an apology, certainly, and not some petty dismissal of his concerns. He whittled the time away, simultaneously taking out his frustration on himself, and Trevelyan, within the confines of his mind. He’d have to craft an apology of his own, he was sure. But he wouldn’t utter a word of it until Trevelyan made amends. _Have to hold on to some pride, at least._

He stared out the window of the room. Val Royeaux was alight, torches burning on the streets, in the windows of manors and chateaus, making it nearly impossible to see any of the stars in the sky. The moon had not yet decided to grace the evening with her presence. 

The doorknob turned, and Trevelyan carefully maneuvered his way into the room. Dorian cast a glance at him, and turned back to his séance at the window. 

“I’m guessing you won’t be joining us for tonight’s mission?” Trevelyan asked quietly, his voice measured and distant. 

“That won’t be a problem, I assume?” Dorian failed to temper his own tone, and Trevelyan looked as though he’d been run through with a blade. 

“No, not at all,” Trevelyan tried bravely to smile at Dorian, but his lips just couldn’t seem to tug themselves upward. “I just have to grab a few things, and I’ll be out of your hair.” 

Dorian turned back to the window without so much as word, his eyes heavy with sadness. Trevelyan rustled through his bags in the corner of the room, the sounds of buckles being undone and flaps being opened. 

He sat down on the bed, and began to remove his shoes, his shirt, his pants. Dorian’s head wandered back for a moment, as he caught Trevelyan standing naked, the faint glow of the evening washing over the muscles in his legs, the coiled tendons in his arms, the ample fullness of his backside. 

Dorian turned back before he got caught. How long had it been since Dorian felt he could only steal glances at Trevelyan’s physique, and how many times since then had he enjoyed the exquisite taste of Trevelyan’s sweat, the feel of Trevelyan’s taut body underneath his fingers? 

Trevelyan changed, as quickly as possible, letting his magic close the buckles and fasten the buttons tight to his chest, into a robe of midnight blue, that was much lighter than his usual attire. Dorian suspected it was for stealth – sneaking into the home of a merchant from Vyrantium would require caution and quiet, two things Trevelyan sorely lacked. 

“I’ll be on my way, then,” he said, quietly. 

“Be careful,” Dorian murmured, his eyes rolling sideways to the very corner, as Trevelyan’s feet moved toward the door. 

He stopped suddenly, and spun, rushing to Dorian’s side. Dorian looked up to see Trevelyan standing over him, his eyes sad and dark. 

“I’ll try,” Trevelyan said, and Dorian saw his hand move from the edge of his field of vision. Trevelyan stopped suddenly once more, and withdrew his hand, thinking better of the gesture. 

_He’s probably afraid you’d bite it off. Not an unreasonable fear, at this moment._

He quickly turned and made his way out of the room. 

Dorian felt the tear drip down his cheek, slowly and painfully. He quickly wiped it away. He wondered if Trevelyan had shed any tears of his own over this whole mess. _The ass._

All he wanted was to fall asleep. 

He heaved himself off the sofa, and quickly made his way to the bed, peeling the clothes off his body, letting them drop to the floor without an ounce of concern. 

He slipped under the covers and prayed for sleep. 

He continued to do so for what felt like hours. 

Trevelyan drifted through his mind, over and over, floating like some specter through the plains of his psyche. Dorian tried to shake him, but he kept cropping up, his sad eyes staring back at Dorian, his laughter echoing in his head, glimpses of his naked body teasing the edges of Dorian’s view. Dorian rolled around, tangling himself up in the sheets, too hot, too cold, frustrated, furious, horribly upset. 

Dorian had run the gamut of emotions when it had come to men, but this twisted amalgamation – this was strange and foreign to him. Sure, he’d gotten his hopes up, and had them crushed horribly, but this was deeper, all twisted up into something barely recognizable. 

_Almost like how you felt with Father._

Dorian gagged at the thought. _So what is this? Are you just working through your daddy issues?_

Dorian frowned, and shoved his face deeper into his pillow. 

_Or maybe, that’s just how deep your feelings for Trevelyan are beginning to run._

He hadn’t eaten, and yet, he felt the bile rise up in his throat. 

_Kaffas._

Dorian heard the quiet commotion in the common room. He suspected that Trevelyan had just returned from his mission. 

Dorian had expected to be asleep by now. Hoped he would be, in fact. But he was thankful that something would help take him away from these thoughts. 

He didn’t bother putting on his undershirt, just tugging his pants up quickly, opening the door to his room and quietly making his way toward the noise. He found Trevelyan sitting at the table in the center of the room, flanked by Blackwall, Sera, and Vivienne, who had accompanied him on the mission. Vivienne must have offered to go in his stead. He wondered how many cutting remarks she had aimed at Dorian while she had the Inquisitor’s ear to herself – it seemed like the perfect opportunity for her to insert herself in the gap between the pair, to pry him and the Inquisitor even further apart. 

Leliana and Cassandra had emerged from their room, as had Cullen and Iron Bull. They all gathered around the table as Trevelyan reached into his pocket and produced three shards of crystal, which he gently laid out on the table. 

“What are those?” Cullen asked. Trevelyan waved a hand through the air, joining the pieces of the crystal together momentarily, and watched as the faces around the table twisted in shock at the sound of Calpernia’s voice ringing out through the air. 

“That’s a dwarven memory crystal,” Varric said, emerging from his room, his undershirt unbuttoned, exposing his hirsute figure. “The Shapers used them to store memories. Don’t ask me how.” 

“Maybe Dagna will know what to make of it,” Trevelyan replied, shifting in his chair. A grimace crossed his face momentarily. 

“This could prove to be very useful,” Leliana said, her voice glinting with amusement. “And what of Vicinius?” 

“Dead. Killed by the Venatori,” Blackwall spoke up. 

“You’ll never guess why,” Sera interjected, like a child who wanted to prove her value to the adults. She waited for a moment, for someone to make a guess, but no one took her bait. “Alright, here it is: he was hurting slaves!” 

Everyone looked even more puzzled than when she had started. 

“It seems Calpernia is something of an abolitionist,” Vivienne added, helping to clarify the situation. “When word reached her that Vicinius had been abusing the slaves he was selling, she had him killed.” 

“All that, from this little crystal?” Bull asked. 

“I’m certain there’s more. We’ll figure that out once we return to Skyhold. For now, get some rest. It’s rather late,” Trevelyan breathed mindlessly, staring out the windows into the black night, punctuated by the glow of the few remaining city lights that continued to burn into the wee hours of morning. 

They all returned slowly to their respective rooms. Dorian’s stomach twisted itself into knots, as he held the door open for Trevelyan. They’d thankfully been occupied since their visit to Ponchard, and had not a moment alone, so Dorian had been able to avoid the conversation. He heard Trevelyan close the door behind him, and turned for a brief moment to look back. 

Trevelyan stood, cloaked in the darkness, his eye partially obscured by a strand of hair that dangled over it. His body was relaxed, but his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, and if Dorian could read the dark lines of his face correctly, sadness. 

Dorian turned back, and quickly removed his pants before crawling into bed. Trevelyan sighed loudly, and began to make his way to the small bureau in the corner of the room. His footfalls were uneven, as he leaned heavily on one leg, hobbling quietly across the room. Dorian turned, and saw him sit down. 

Trevelyan quickly unfastened the buckles and buttons of his robes, tugging them off his body, and resting them gently on the back of his chair. His right leg was stretched out, his heel resting carefully against the floor. Unobscured by his robes, Dorian noticed the large hole ripped in the side of Trevelyan’s trousers. He undid them, and carefully began to pull them down his legs, sucking in breaths between his teeth and gasping as he moved down past his thigh. 

“What happened to you?” Dorian asked instinctively. 

“Venatori mage. Caught me off guard, dispelled my barrier. Hit me with some fire before I could stop him,” he said through gritted teeth. He began to rustle through his bag, producing a jar of ointment and some bandages. 

Dorian pulled himself out of bed, and quickly made his way to Trevelyan’s side. The flesh was severely burnt, red and mottled by the heat of flames that should never have touched his skin. Someone had healed it, but not sufficiently. Dorian assumed that Trevelyan had brushed off the pain, and patched himself up quickly as to avoid scrutiny from Vivienne. He could have used her healing skills; her work was never this sloppy. 

“Let me,” Dorian said, taking the ointment and the linens. Trevelyan put up no resistance. _For once._

Dorian applied the ointment gingerly as Trevelyan sat in silence, staring at the wall in front of him. He worked a healing spell, which helped the flesh begin to absorb the ointment. It wouldn’t have been necessary if the wound had been properly healed, and if it hadn’t been so severe. Dorian quivered at the thought of what it had looked like before Trevelyan had tried fixing it. 

He wrapped him up carefully, his hands sliding across the planes of Trevelyan’s well-toned legs, and Dorian cursed him quietly in his mind. _Of course that’s how this all ends up. Tending to his wounds, kneeling before him like some supplicant._

_Kaffas._

He finished his work quickly, and once it was complete, he stopped, staring down at the floor, unsure of how to proceed. Trevelyan seemed equally flustered and uncertain, gazing off toward the window. They sat frozen in silence like this for what felt like an eternity, utterly incapable of moving, let alone speaking. Trevelyan turned his head down to Dorian. Dorian would not meet his gaze. 

“I’m sorry,” Trevelyan said. 

“You ought to be,” Dorian snapped back. Trevelyan sighed heavily, picking his hand up to his face and rubbing his eyes with his palm. 

“I know.”

They resumed their silence, seemingly at an impasse. Dorian felt the frustration well up inside, and he was afraid if he held on to it for much longer, it would turn into resentment. 

“I should have respected your wishes.” 

“It wasn’t a wish,” Dorian corrected him. “I told you not to get involved.” 

“I wouldn’t have!” Trevelyan pleaded. “But we’d planned on coming to Val Royeaux, for a thousand other reasons, and I didn’t think…” 

“No, you didn’t,” Dorian cut him off. Trevelyan sighed again, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. He winced slightly at the pain in his leg. 

“Why?” Trevelyan asked. 

“Why what?” 

“Why wouldn’t you accept my help in the first place?” 

“ _Kaffas_.” Dorian rolled his head, and stood back up, walking to the bed. He heard the chair squeak underneath Trevelyan as he picked himself up, and slowly hobbled across the floor toward Dorian. Dorian turned around to face him, so he wouldn’t have the chance to wrap himself around Dorian. He wouldn’t be able to maintain his anger underneath Trevelyan’s touch. 

“No one else is shy about asking me for help. Why?” Trevelyan insisted. 

“I’m not everyone else,” Dorian reminded him. “I’m a grown man. I don’t need you cleaning up my messes behind me.”

“Ponchard would have agreed to nothing less than my involvement. It cost me nothing. I was happy to do it.” 

“That’s absolutely irrelevant, and you damn well know it. _Venhedis!_ I said I didn’t want your help. You failed to listen, and you went behind my back. That’s why I’m angry.” 

Trevelyan stopped, and looked down at the bed. He winced again, before sitting carefully on the edge. 

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have known better.” 

“You _did_ know better. I hadn’t thought anything of you acting shifty all week, until we were standing in front of Ponchard. You _knew_ it would upset me.” Trevelyan looked up at Dorian, a defeated expression on his face. 

“I shouldn’t have kept it from you.” 

“Any other secrets you’d like to get off your chest?” 

“I have no others,” Trevelyan looked up at him, meeting his eyes, so that Dorian could see his face, and know that he was telling the truth. 

“Alright, then,” Dorian exhaled. He was still upset. Nothing Trevelyan could say would fix that. 

“I hate meaningless apologies,” Trevelyan started. “Saying, ‘I’m sorry’ and leaving it there.” 

“I’m not sure I follow.” 

“I promise you that this won’t happen again. I won’t go behind your back. And I will listen, from now on.” Dorian stared down at him. He couldn’t wipe the bitter look off his own face. “I don’t expect you to let this go immediately. But I hope you’ll give me the chance to learn from my mistake, and show you that I’m making an effort to be better.” 

Dorian felt that warmth bloom in his chest, igniting in slow motion. It may not have erased his disappointment, but it was good to know that warmth still existed, that this might just be a bump on the road instead of an earth-shaking calamity. It was the first time they’d been at odds like this, after all. And truly, Trevelyan’s intentions were good, even if his methods were piss-poor and utterly infuriating. 

“I’m sorry,” Trevelyan looked down at his lap again. “I could sleep in the common room tonight, if you’d like to be alone.” 

Dorian thought on it for a second. He might still be upset, but he wasn’t angry. Trevelyan may have done him wrong, but he was sincerely apologetic. Even more so, Dorian had grown accustomed to sleeping in the same bed as Trevelyan, and was afraid he’d never get any rest without a warm body next to him. He reached out a hand to cradle Trevelyan’s face, rubbing his thumb along his cheekbone. 

“Don’t be silly.” 

Dorian crawled up onto the bed, and slid over to his side. Trevelyan eased down next to him, lying on his back, tucked underneath the plush covers. They stared at the ceiling together, another silence growing in the space between them. 

“Make sure you take care of that burn. I don’t need you running around Skyhold, scarred up like some ragged apostate. You have enough scars from Tevinters as it stands.” 

Trevelyan snorted, a small burst of air expelled from his nostrils, and Dorian could feel him smiling by his side. Under the covers, his hand found Dorian’s, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Dorian returned the gesture in kind. 

“That, I can do.” 

___ 

Dorian hadn’t visited in so long, he was afraid he’d forgotten how it looked, but luckily, it was clear as day, even as the moon hung low and fat in the night sky. 

The stars dotted the heavens like a million distant, glinting lanterns. 

The salty ocean air wrapped around him, cool in the night, but still warm enough that he could walk around without layers upon layers of robes to keep himself from freezing. 

_Say what you will about the Imperium, but the weather in Minrathous is far superior to that of the South._

He’d known he’d been dreaming the minute he recognized where he was, but luckily, his time in the Fade had taught him how to enjoy these moments, when your mind slipped past the Veil and reflected your heart’s desires, your greatest fears, your deepest regrets. 

Luckily, he’d had this dream many times before, and he was more than happy to stay for as long as he could hold on to it. 

The docks were beautiful, well-maintained, if not slightly dusty from all the foot traffic during the day, but by evening they’d become quiet, sparsely populated by small groups, couples, and the lone wanderer. Normally, that last role was reserved for Dorian. 

But never in his dreams. 

He walked hand and hand with a man, who was cloaked in the black robes of his homeland, and he felt no fear, no shame. No one looked at them twice as they made their way across the promenade, laughing at each other’s jokes, smiling at each other’s compliments, humoring each other with tales of all the constellations that were visible in the sky above their heads. 

It was everything he’d ever wanted. He knew, of course, that it was impossible, and upon waking, he would feel that same sickening tug that made him reach for a bottle of whatever-the-fuck-would-make-it-stop-hurting. But while he was here, all he felt was joy. And what harm was there in that? 

He followed the pair, outside of his own body, watching them make their way to the railings that overlooked the harbor, the stone statutes of Archons past gazing down upon them. They didn’t seem to notice; they concerned themselves with nothing but each other. They stood, pressed against the railing, arms wrapped comfortably around each other’s waists. 

_What I wouldn’t give_ , Dorian thought, watching the pair as they turned to face each other. They leaned forward, and kissed one another, a tender, chaste expression of their affection. At least, chaste to the observer: Dorian wouldn’t have squandered the opportunity to use his tongue. 

To walk, hand in hand, with his lover in the Imperium. It could only happen in a dream. Reality began to prick at him, but he pushed it away. 

_Just a little longer, now. One has to dream of something, after all._

The light of dawn was rising in the sky to the east, the silvery glow creeping across the water. The wind picked up, and blew waves through the darkened hood of the man he was kissing. The man had always worn a hood, for as long as Dorian could remember. He had no face to give him, no particular man in mind, when he’d dreamed this dream before, and so rather than invent one, he assumed whatever spirit in the Fade that was reflecting his innermost wishes had chosen to obscure it in shadow. 

The breeze caught on the hood, and yanked it back, spilling out waves upon waves of silvery blond. It was sheer perfection, coated in the sublime rays of daybreak. 

Trevelyan, on the docks of Minrathous, leaned forward to kiss Dorian once more. 

___ 

Dorian awoke, the cool light of the autumn morning seeping in through the window. He rubbed his eyes, and looked over. The bed was empty. 

Had he dreamed what he thought he’d dreamed? He yawned somewhat gracelessly. 

“Go back to sleep,” Trevelyan whispered lowly. Dorian searched for his voice, and found him sitting in his chair, rubbing his bare leg. 

_His leg that’s supposed to have a bandage on it. Listening, my ass._

“What are you doing?” Dorian croaked. Trevelyan lifted his hand, and Dorian caught the glint of an oily sheen across Trevelyan’s leg. He looked over to the bureau, and saw fresh linens and the jar of ointment. 

“Not as good a job as you,” he sighed. “But I’m trying.” He looked up at Dorian and smiled, a small, tentative curve on his lips. 

Dorian yawned again, and fell back against his pillow. 

“Come back to bed when you’ve finished.” 

Trevelyan obliged. He slid back underneath the sheets, lying on his back, careful to give Dorian a wide berth. Dorian sighed, and rolled over, reaching his arm across Trevelyan’s waist, and pulling him closer, wrapping his leg over Trevelyan’s undamaged one. Trevelyan’s arm flung itself out, and Dorian eased himself into the nook. 

“I’m still upset.” 

“You have every right to be.” 

“I just sleep better like this.” 

“As do I.” 

___ 

That morning, after they’d woken up, they’d continued their conversation, warm and comfortable underneath the fluffy down sheets of the overwrought Orlesian bed. 

_I’m sorry_ , Trevelyan had offered. 

_We’ve established that_ , he’d replied. 

_Still haven’t forgiven me?_

_Not quite yet_. Trevelyan frowned. _I’m upset, but I’ll admit that I overreacted._

_No, you were right to be angry._

Dorian had sighed. _I don’t want to be indebted to you._

_I didn’t do this so you would be indebted to me._ The earnestness had crept into Trevelyan’s voice. _I knew it was important to you. I wanted to take care of it. I'm not expecting anything in return._

_That’s the problem._

_How is that a problem?_

Trevelyan was impossibly naïve. _Someone intelligent would cozy up to the Inquisitor if they could. It’d be foolish not to. He can open doors, get you whatever you want, shower you with gifts and power._ Dorian sighed. _That’s what they’ll say: I’m the magister who’s using you._

_It’s no different than what they’ve already been saying. Or did you think I hadn’t heard the rumors?_

Dorian had hoped he hadn’t. 

_I don’t care what a bunch of bored, petty nobles think. But I’m sorry. I had no idea you were concerned._ Trevelyan had begun to rub Dorian’s arm gently. 

Dorian sighed. _I don’t care what they think about me. I care what they think about us._

Trevelyan had smiled, and leaned in to kiss Dorian, who couldn’t help but lose himself in Trevelyan’s lips. Just as he was about to forget, Trevelyan pulled back. 

_I’m sorry_ , he mumbled again. _That was maybe a little presumptuous of –_

Dorian would hear no more apologies. The warmth had returned, and he pressed his lips to Trevelyan’s to silence him. 

Dorian sighed, pushing the memory out of his mind, and began his hike up the stairs toward Trevelyan’s chambers. His nerves were getting the better of him, and his steps were shaky, as though he was unable to feel his feet below him, as if he were floating. His legs propelled him up and forward awkwardly, the wobble trailing up to his knees. _Control yourself, Pavus._ He’d made this climb a hundred times before, and then some. But tonight would be different. 

_Tonight, you will get your answer._

He felt the weight of his birthright, thudding gently against his chest. He was happy to have it back where it belonged. He grabbed for it through his shirt, feeling the familiar grooves pressed up against his skin, the gold warmed by his own body heat. He wondered how many heads of the Pavus household had worn the amulet before him. 

_You really ought to have it cleaned properly._

Dorian was nearing the top of the stairs. He thought back to earlier that day, when Trevelyan had come to him in his alcove in the library, the amulet clutched carefully in his marked hand. 

_Here it is_ , he offered, still afraid of Dorian’s wrath. 

Dorian had gazed down at the Birthright in his palm, appreciating the familiar weightiness. After everything that had happened, it was comforting to have a piece of his homeland back within his grasp. 

_Now I’m indebted to you._

Trevelyan stared at him, sadness tugging at his eyes. _Dorian, you owe me nothing._

_I’m teasing_ , Dorian smiled. _I was an ass at the merchant’s. It’s my specialty. I apologize, and thank you._

He closed the space between him and Trevelyan, and grabbed at his waist, pulling him in for a kiss that would put to rest any doubts that remained in Trevelyan’s mind. He pulled back for a brief moment. 

_I’m going to stop before I say something syrupy, but I won’t forget this, and I will repay you. Count on it._

After they’d separated, Trevelyan made for Dorian’s hand. _Here. Let me help you put that on._

Dorian smiled, and handed the amulet back to him, as Trevelyan slid behind him and carefully affixed the clasp. 

_Perfect_ , Trevelyan had said, his eyes resting not upon the gold and the jewels, but on Dorian’s face. 

Dorian had spent the larger part of the afternoon staring down at what once was lost to him. He’d been afraid that he’d never get it back, and now he was glad that he’d been wrong. And for as mad as he’d been when it had all happened, when Trevelyan had overstepped his bounds, now… Well, Trevelyan was still an ass. But an ass who was willing to put his own on the line for Dorian. An ass who was willing to admit when he was wrong. An ass who always wanted to do better. 

_And what an ass it was._

Dorian had crept carefully up the stairs in Trevelyan’s chambers, and found him, standing over his desk, poring over some letters, assuredly correspondences from nobles from all corners of Thedas, pledging their aid, or pleading for the Inquisition’s. 

He saw Trevelyan pick up the next letter, held together with an ornate wax seal, in the darkest shade of green, the color of the treetops on the night of the new moon. He watched as Trevelyan’s shoulders sunk down, and a loud sigh escaped his lips. He dropped the letter upon the stack in front of him, and placed both hands on the desk, dipping his head down and rolling his shoulders. 

Dorian had already begun to walk toward Trevelyan, who didn’t seem to hear Dorian’s measured steps, as he strode carefully to Trevelyan’s side. He slid his hand along Trevelyan’s lower back, wrapping it around his waist, which finally seemed to rouse Trevelyan from whatever thoughts he’d sunken into. He twisted upright. 

“Dorian,” he sniffed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.” Dorian caught a glimpse of his eyes. _Glassy._

“What’s wrong?” Dorian asked. 

Trevelyan smirked, gazing off toward the darkened windows, the dying light of day slipping further and further beyond the mountain, before he turned back to Dorian. “It’s been a long day. It always is, when we get back. I was just yawning.” 

“Not hiding anything, are you?” Dorian asked, tilting his head to the side. 

Trevelyan sighed. “It has nothing to do with you, I promise. I’m very happy to see you, and I’m not looking to ruin the mood. I’m assuming you didn’t come up here to listen to me complain.” He shook the sadness from his voice, and smiled brightly at Dorian. 

“Not particularly,” Dorian said, narrowing his eyes with suspicion. Trevelyan pulled him close and kissed him gently on his forehead, pressing his lips there for more than a moment. 

“You’re far more important than a stack of letters from a bunch of self-righteous nobles.” 

The warm look in Trevelyan’s eyes made Dorian forget whatever lingering qualms he might have had. 

“So what did you have in mind?” 

“A proposal,” Dorian started. “We dispense with the chitchat, and move on to something more… _primal_.” 

“Oh?” Trevelyan grinned wickedly. 

“I suppose it really depends,” Dorian dropped his voice to a hushed whisper, lust coating every one of his words. “How bad does the Inquisitor want to be?” 

Trevelyan chuckled lightly, before grabbing Dorian tight around his waist. He plunged into Dorian’s lips, kissing him deeply before biting down on his lower lip. 

“Ah!” Dorian gasped. Trevelyan smiled, pulling away from Dorian for an instant. 

“I learned a new trick, I think you might appreciate.” 

“What’s that?” 

Trevelyan stepped back from Dorian, breathing in deeply and closing his eyes. Suddenly, he vanished, his body suddenly transparent, except for his clothes, which summarily tumbled down into a pile on the floor. Dorian felt a sudden chill pass through him, before he heard Trevelyan’s delightful chuckle behind him. He turned around, and watched as Trevelyan rematerialized, the light of the fire playing against his naked body. He turned his head over his shoulder. 

“It’ll save you time getting my clothes off.” 

He turned, and stretched himself out across the bed, his naked body luring Dorian across the room. Dorian chased after him willingly. He lowered himself down over Trevelyan, and kissed him. 

Tonight, Dorian had a mission. He realized when Trevelyan had arranged the meeting with Ponchard that he’d become so invested in this... affair, that it was becoming untenable. They’d slipped comfortably into this strange liaison – Dorian had spent far more evenings in Skyhold tucked into Trevelyan’s bed than his own – and Dorian knew that at some point, lines would have to be drawn, boundaries would need to be set, and terms would have to be agreed to. 

_Or maybe, you’re too used to how these things operate in Tevinter._

Dorian pinned Trevelyan’s hands behind his head as he bit down on Trevelyan’s neck, a little harder than he ought to. Trevelyan bucked violently underneath him, his swollen cock pressing against Dorian’s stomach. Trevelyan magicked all the buckles on Dorian’s shirt loose with but a thought. His magic had become effortless. 

In Tevinter, however, Dorian hadn’t spent months by the side of a man who kissed him publicly. And this wasn’t some arranged marriage, where Trevelyan and Dorian had been paired for one another based on their station and their bloodlines. Hell, in Tevinter, if word had spread far and wide enough that either Dorian or his lover was so easily blackmailed, things would have broken off without even a thought. But this wasn’t Tevinter, and Dorian was not quite ready to be free of this entanglement. 

_You know what you want. To be tangled up, moreso than you are now._

Dorian sucked Trevelyan’s nipples, flicking them with his tongue as Trevelyan moaned underneath him. Trevelyan’s hands remained pressed firmly above his head. Dorian planted sloppy, wet kisses across Trevelyan’s chest, before returning to his lips. Trevelyan grunted in approval. 

Dorian wanted more. He’d spent so long having accepted that such a thing was an impossibility, but he refused to accept it any longer. Trevelyan lay beneath him, electrified by each and every touch, and Dorian wanted nothing more than to please him, convince him to keep Dorian around for just a little while longer. 

He’d fallen, and he hoped Trevelyan was falling, too. He made his way down Trevelyan’s abs, running his tongue along the lines carved into his stomach. It would hardly seem so frightening, if he knew they were falling together. 

He felt Trevelyan’s cock against the side of his face, as his mouth worked further down Trevelyan’s body. He was already leaking sticky sweetness from the tip of his cock, and Dorian felt it trailing down his cheek. He continued to tease Trevelyan, licking and kissing around his cock, biting at his thighs, tracing trails of saliva down the v-shaped lines that tapered downward. Trevelyan gasped and twitched accordingly. 

He’d thought about how to broach the topic endlessly – a blunt, direct question or a couched, tentative statement, over dinner or lying down in bed, now, then, later – but he’d never come to a conclusion with which he could be completely satisfied. There were too many variations to consider, too many paths before him. He’d been content thus far to stand still. 

_No longer._

Trevelyan charged headlong into every situation, and while he’d developed finesse – seemingly overnight – his approach was consistently straightforward. He would appreciate Dorian coming to him in the same way. At least, Dorian hoped he would. 

_Kaffas!_ He shushed himself, as his lips made to tease the tip of Trevelyan’s cock. Trevelyan smiled down at Dorian’s face. 

“You enjoy torturing me,” Trevelyan purred. 

_It is no longer time for doubt. Now is the time for bold, decisive action._

“I’d hardly call this torture,” Dorian replied breathily, dragging his tongue along the underside of Trevelyan’s cock, staring intently at Trevelyan as he inhaled sharply. 

_No more of this in-between, one-foot-in-the-door nonsense._

“I didn’t say it wasn’t sublime. Stop playing around.” 

_Just a little seduction, to sway his judgment in your favor._

“As you wish, Lord Inquisitor.” 

And he was determined to have his way. 

He devoured Trevelyan’s cock eagerly, and watched as Trevelyan’s head rolled backward against the mattress. He sucked greedily, all the while appreciating Trevelyan’s length and girth. How much pleasure Trevelyan had brought him. How much pleasure that he’d given in return. 

Trevelyan ran his hands through Dorian’s hair, breathing heavily and rocking his hips slightly, as Dorian suckled the tip of Trevelyan’s cock. He plunged his head down, taking all of Trevelyan into his mouth, and Trevelyan moaned loudly. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Trevelyan gasped. Dorian pulled back, and moved his mouth down to Trevelyan’s balls, taking each one into his mouth as he continued to stroke Trevelyan’s cock. 

“Hmmmm,” Trevelyan hummed lowly. “Get yourself up here.” 

Dorian didn’t need to be asked twice. He stood up, and began to disrobe. Trevelyan reached a hand out to his bare chest. “Let me,” he murmured, and Dorian felt the Fade wrap around him, cloaking him, as his body vanished much in the same manner that Trevelyan’s had, his clothes falling away underneath him. 

“I can see how that might come in handy.” He felt himself vibrate back into reality, as he fell on top of Trevelyan, their mouths meeting once more. Trevelyan grabbed eagerly at Dorian’s swollen cock, stroking Dorian languorously as they melted into each other. 

Dorian was acclimated to falling away from himself at this point – loosing the reins just enough that his mind stopped wandering, stopped questioning – and letting Trevelyan take the lead. Luckily, it hadn’t led to any further scarring. But tonight required the utmost focus. Dorian was attuned to every twitch, every moan, and was determined to tease each one out to its endpoint. 

He felt Trevelyan’s breath quickening as he stroked his cock, eager to return his mouth to his work, but Trevelyan’s hands were insistent, traveling along Dorian’s body. He rolled over on top of Dorian, and continued licking and kissing down the side of his neck, his pace uneven, so that Dorian might never become acclimated to the sensation. Dorian sighed breathily, and Trevelyan returned with small moans as Dorian continued to work his cock. 

Trevelyan slid down Dorian’s body, his mouth winding its way across Dorian’s torso in an untraceable pattern, his tongue lashing out against Dorian’s nipples, his fingers digging into Dorian’s waist. His mouth passed over Dorian’s cock, a quick suck to pay it the proper respect, before he slid off the bed, throwing Dorian’s thighs over his shoulders. He bit and licked at the insides of Dorian’s thighs, sending pulses of pleasure through Dorian’s body, his cock twitching in delight as steady streams trailed from the tip across his stomach. 

Trevelyan took Dorian into his mouth, his head sinking down into Dorian’s lap, the back of his throat greeting the tip of Dorian’s cock and pushing further still, until all of Dorian was in his mouth. 

Dorian moaned, his hand instinctively reaching down to the back of Trevelyan’s head, knotting his hair in his hand, as Trevelyan rose back up, only to fall down again, sucking desperately. Dorian gasped, and Trevelyan rose once more, before speeding up his assault, his eyes trained on the task at hand, glancing up at Dorian every now and again to make sure his efforts were having their desired effect. Dorian pushed Trevelyan’s head down gently, and Trevelyan growled in delight, the sound muffled by Dorian’s cock, thick and warm inside his mouth. Trevelyan delighted in servicing Dorian, and Dorian would deny him no pleasure this evening. 

Trevelyan pulled away, and Dorian breathed as the cool air hit him, his cock dripping with Trevelyan’s saliva. Trevelyan’s tongue trailed down, casually grazing over Dorian’s balls, before running down his taint and over his hole. Dorian sighed, a smile unintentionally crossing his face as Trevelyan’s tongue slid over him, inside of him. Trevelyan grunted with pleasure, savoring in the taste. 

Dorian gasped heavily, casting a downward glance at Trevelyan, whose eyes glared up at him, greedy for more. 

“That feels incredible,” Dorian purred. Trevelyan’s eyes softened with a smile, as he playfully nipped at Dorian’s ass, the laughter pealing from his throat stifled by his busy tongue. 

“You inspire greatness,” he murmured from between Dorian’s thighs. 

“My ass certainly does.” 

“No arguments there,” Trevelyan said, as he unleashed a cool breath, amplified by his magical power, a frosty chill covering Dorian ass. The sensation was incredible, a sharp change from the delightful warmth of Trevelyan’s mouth. Dorian sucked in the air through his teeth. 

“Aaaaah!” he gasped. Trevelyan moved his face forward, and returned to his work, his warm tongue a sharp contrast to the cooling sensation, bringing warmth back to Dorian’s cheeks. 

“Enjoy that?” Trevelyan asked, before licking up Dorian’s cock and taking it back into his mouth. 

“That’s a new trick.” 

“Maybe for you,” Trevelyan said, arching his eyebrows at Dorian suggestively. Dorian reached down, and grabbed at Trevelyan’s shoulders, pulling him back up, and kissing him deeply. Trevelyan jerked at his cock, pushing it against Dorian’s hole, which puckered with excitement. 

Now the real work begins, Dorian thought. 

He felt the cool slick of oil against his skin, as Trevelyan sunk two fingers into him, his hole eager for the sensation. Trevelyan quickly found Dorian’s spot and Dorian’s lips parted, a breath of ecstasy escaping from his lips, which Trevelyan captured in a kiss. 

Trevelyan kept at his work, gently maneuvering his digits inside of Dorian, eliciting moan after moan as Dorian’s mind spun, his hips bucking at Trevelyan’s command. 

“No more teasing,” Dorian gasped. 

“That eager for my cock?” Trevelyan whispered into Dorian’s ear. Dorian could feel his smile next to him. 

“Imagine that,” Dorian whimpered, as Trevelyan dug his fingers further into him. “Ass.” 

“Your wish is my command, Lord Pavus.” 

Trevelyan carefully removed his fingers, and Dorian felt the tip of his cock press against his hole, as Trevelyan moved his hips forward into Dorian. 

It was a sensation Dorian had grown totally acclimated to, the sensation of Trevelyan filling him, his thick, hard cock always finding its way to Dorian’s spot, the blinding pleasure of the sensation, the low curses that escaped Trevelyan’s lips as Dorian tightened reflexively around him. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Trevelyan hissed into Dorian’s ear. That squeeze had been intentional. 

Trevelyan sunk himself all the way inside of Dorian, and kissed at his neck, his hands sliding up Dorian’s thighs. 

“ _Maker_ ,” his voice still a raspy whisper. Dorian responded by pushing his ass further into Trevelyan’s hips, and biting down on Trevelyan’s shoulder. Trevelyan understood, and began to thrust gently into Dorian, whose staccato grunts grew louder and breathier the quicker and deeper the motion became. 

Dorian found Trevelyan’s lips amongst the confusion that this sort of pleasure engendered, and they pulled him back. The sweet, delicate kiss, even as Trevelyan’s teeth grazed Dorian’s bottom lip, was the port in this storm, but the most reliable Dorian had ever known. 

And that was why Dorian was so intent. He’d never quite felt this way – the only turbulent times they experienced were generally confined to the bedroom or the battlefield, and save one pendant, which was lying somewhere on the floor amidst his clothing – as peaceful, as calm, as enchanted as he did when he was lying in bed, pressed against Trevelyan. 

And he’d positively loathed cuddling in the Imperium. 

Trevelyan had broken a thousand and one rules, for all of Thedas, and for Dorian. Trevelyan continued thrusting, and Dorian had stopped attempting to control the volume of his voice. He moaned loudly into Trevelyan’s ear, and Trevelyan responded with his own ragged breath. It would be so easy for Dorian to lose himself, to let Trevelyan push him over the edge, to cover himself in his own seed, but he was determined to make this evening memorable. 

“Slow down,” Dorian begged. “Please. You’ll kill me.” 

Trevelyan stopped abruptly. “Am I hurting you?” He asked, his tone suddenly serious. 

“Not at all. I’m just not quite ready for the grand finale.” 

“Ah. The only death you fear is _le petit mort_ ,” Trevelyan chuckled. “Very well.” He pulled out of Dorian, and lay back against the pillows. “Come here, then.” 

Dorian obeyed, entwining himself in Trevelyan’s limbs and lips, a tangle of fervor. His nails scratched against Trevelyan’s chest, Trevelyan’s hands grasping aggressively at Dorian’s ass, gently teasing his hole. 

If Dorian was completely honest, he wanted nothing more than to bend over and let Trevelyan have his way, to jerk himself to a violent conclusion, and to twist himself up underneath the covers, vanishing into the realm of dreams. But that was merely avoidance, his usual aversion to conversations much deeper than a coy greeting and a flirtatious insult. He and Trevelyan had already shared so much more than that. This flame couldn’t burn any longer without more kindling to keep the fires going, and Dorian was afraid if he didn’t find something – in the form of Trevelyan’s approval – he’d become the kindling, and would summarily be consumed. 

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy everything leading up to that moment. 

He pushed himself away from Trevelyan, moving toward the foot of the bed on his hands and knees, his chest sinking to the mattress, his ass popped into the air, his legs spread apart, his cock dangling thick with desire between them. 

He turned back to gaze at Trevelyan, who looked like a wolf who was just about to catch his prey. 

“Fuck me,” Dorian whimpered. 

Trevelyan was all too happy to oblige. Dorian felt Trevelyan’s hands grab onto his hips, the tip of his cock pressing against Dorian’s hole, the warm sensation of being filled. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Trevelyan yelled, burying himself inside of Dorian, as the thrusts began, hard and fast and completely unrelenting. Dorian buried his face into the sheets, his mouth agape, hoping that the fabric would stifle his moans. It didn’t. 

Trevelyan kept on, and Dorian glanced back, watching Trevelyan’s gaze, fixed upon Dorian’s ass, watching himself slide in and out. Dorian could hardly breathe. His legs shook underneath him, his knuckles white as they grasped at the footboard. 

And he felt the sensation rise up inside of him, the warm prickling feeling gently transcending his thighs. He’d never been one for an orgasm without manual stimulation, but he knew this feeling. It crept up slowly and painfully, as he tried desperately to calm himself down. He felt Trevelyan’s hands pulling his ass apart, his fingers digging into his cheeks so determinedly that he was sure to have a few bruises in the morning. A small price to pay for all this, Dorian reasoned, with what little sense he still had to his name. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Trevelyan spat again, “I’m getting close.” 

“No!” Dorian yelled, jerking his hips forward, as Trevelyan slid out of him. He lay there for a moment, his hips jerking back and forth violently as he staved off his own orgasm. He whimpered loudly, and turned back to Gabriel. “Not yet.” 

“Ugh!” Trevelyan moaned, flopping back against the pillow. “Tease!” He hurled the accusation across the bed at Dorian. _Well, at least he catches on quickly._

“I promise, it will all be worth it.” 

Dorian turned back and stared up at Trevelyan, who was slick and shiny with sweat from his heroic efforts. He’d nearly brought Dorian to orgasm with the sheer force of his cock alone, and he certainly looked as though he'd been making the effort. Dorian crawled up toward him, in between his legs, and grabbed at his cock, sliding himself on top of it. Trevelyan squirmed underneath him, and Dorian was almost reduced to spasms at the sensation of Trevelyan moving, ever so slightly inside. 

He began to bounce in Trevelyan’s lap, and Trevelyan’s hands instinctively made their way to his waist, his mouth opened over his top row of teeth, his face twisted with pleasure. Dorian’s legs burned underneath him, and he grabbed at the headboard for support. He’d held off one of Trevelyan’s orgasms, but he had absolutely no idea if he’d be able to stifle him any further. 

Trevelyan’s hips began to rock forward into Dorian, and Dorian moaned, a deep, guttural sound. The tingle had started back up, this time at the very tips of his fingers and toes, but it was spreading quickly. 

Trevelyan leaned up and caught Dorian’s mouth in a kiss, a lewd, sloppy mess of lips and saliva sliding across much of the lower half of Dorian’s face, but Dorian could care less. He was hardly concerned with neatness, or how unkempt his mustache would be after all this. Maker knew what his eyes looked like – the dark black kohl had probably been smudged across his face. He kissed Trevelyan harder, gasping for breaths in between, feeling the pinpricks travel through his calves. He gripped the headboard harder, as though he were determined to crush it. 

“You,” Trevelyan managed to sputter, in between breaths and kisses, “are… so… beautiful.” 

He didn’t know how much longer he could hold back. Trevelyan’s thumbs slid along the lines that trailed down to his cock, as his body began to shudder. 

“Come for me, beautiful,” Trevelyan begged, his voice but a whisper. 

Dorian exploded, the world around him vanishing into the patterns that played on the backs of his eyelids when he shut his eyes too tight. He threw himself back, feeling Trevelyan’s deep thrusts inside of him, the orgasm that was being ripped from his body more potent than any he’d ever experienced before, as his arms flailed around desperately in an attempt to hold on to Trevelyan’s legs. He screamed at the top of his lungs, a dry and raspy shout, a wordless homage to the abyss of pleasure into which he had fallen. 

From faraway, he heard Trevelyan join him, and he cracked his eyes opened, watching all of Trevelyan’s muscles tense in unison, the sinewy, glistening beast below him jerking his hips violently into Dorian’s hole, his hands pulling Dorian further, further down into his lap. His orgasm was longer than usual, the moments of tension and release spaced further apart, as Trevelyan’s legs bucked up and downward uncontrollably. 

Dorian fell with a thud on top of Trevelyan’s chest, and buried his face into the pillow next to Trevelyan’s head. He’d managed to stop screaming, but every time he exhaled, his breath carried his voice with him. Trevelyan found himself in much the same predicament: his hands glued to Dorian’s side, unable to move, his right leg still shaking underneath Dorian’s body. 

Neither could seem to catch their breath. Dorian wondered if maybe they had died. 

“Fuck,” Trevelyan finally managed. His face turned to Dorian, and he kissed Dorian’s cheek with the corner of his mouth. They laid, like this, for what felt like an eternity, completely immobilized by the crippling weight of their orgasm. Trevelyan’s head remained pressed against Dorian’s neck, his labored breath hot and sticky against Dorian’s skin. 

“Don’t ask me to pull out. I don’t think I can,” Trevelyan muttered. 

“Perish the thought,” Dorian gasped. “You’ve paralyzed me.” 

“A smashing success, then.” 

Dorian finally managed to pick himself up long enough to assess the damage, and caught a glimpse of Trevelyan’s face, his left eye covered completely in Dorian’s seed. His other eye rolled up to stare at Dorian. 

“Been a while since you’ve done that to me,” Trevelyan chuckled. 

“I’m not grabbing you a rag this time,” Dorian responded playfully. Trevelyan snorted lightly. 

“I can’t move,” Trevelyan said, as his arms fell to his sides, dead and lifeless. “That may have been the greatest orgasm I’ve ever had in my entire life.” 

“You’re welcome,” Dorian replied. Trevelyan must have found his strength, as he grabbed at Dorian, and pulled him in for a kiss. 

“I hope it was good for you, too.” 

“It was serviceable.” Dorian felt the pillow smack against the side of his head. 

“Ass,” Trevelyan laughed. 

“Stealing my lines now?” 

“I’m not Varric.” 

“Thank the Maker for that!” Dorian fell back on to Trevelyan’s chest, and melted into his kiss. He wiggled his hips slightly, and felt Trevelyan slip out of him. Trevelyan grunted begrudgingly. 

“You’ll live,” Dorian murmured. 

“Not if you keep making me come like that.” 

Another kiss. Another moment closer to the inevitable. Dorian’s heart started to beat harder. 

“So that letter you received?” Dorian asked, hoping to prolong what he knew he could no longer avoid. 

“Oh, that,” Trevelyan groaned. He pulled Dorian tighter against his chest. “It’s from my family.” 

“They finally reached out to you?” Dorian asked. 

“Mhm.” 

“And?” 

“I haven’t opened it yet.” 

Dorian felt the tension underneath Trevelyan’s words. He tried to catch Trevelyan’s eyes, but he was glancing away, his disheveled hair obscuring his face. Dorian settled on burying himself deeper into his arms. 

“I’m here for you, _Amatus_.” 

Trevelyan turned back, and planted a kiss on top of Dorian’s head, and grabbed for a corner of the sheet to wipe his eye. “I’m assuming that’s another Tevinter insult?” 

Dorian looked up at him, and suddenly realized what he’d said. His mind raced quickly for an excuse, an explanation, but none came. 

“It’s…” he couldn’t stop his mouth. “… a term of endearment.” 

“Like a pet name?” 

“More or less,” Dorian picked himself up, and rolled himself across the bed, suddenly anxious and desperate for just a little more space between himself and Trevelyan. “Now that you’ve stolen ‘ass,’ from me, I had to think of something, and it was the first thing that came to mind.” 

He picked himself up, and strolled over toward the white leather couch by the bannister above the stairs. For a moment, he debating running, screaming into the night like some sort of madman. Or Sera. 

“And here I was, thinking there was a Tevinter word that succinctly insulted my taste in décor.” 

“I like your quarters,” Dorian said, hoping to turn the subject away from his maddening slip. 

“Do you now?” Trevelyan growled from behind him. He turned back to catch Trevelyan staring at his ass, and placed both hands on his hips, to give him a better frame. He smiled, and turned back to the bed, walking over slowly, before sitting down next to Trevelyan, who’d propped himself up on his elbow lazily. 

_It’s now or never, Pavus._ He suddenly felt like he was back on that boat, crossing the Waking Sea. He wanted to lean over the railing and vomit. 

“Not that I couldn’t suggest some changes. Your taste is a little… austere.” 

“You seem a little distracted,” Trevelyan noted, cutting through Dorian’s airs like a blade. 

“Sex will do that. It’s distracting,” Dorian quipped, hoping that maybe, he could avoid this conversation. If only for a little longer. 

_No._

“That’s not it at all,” Trevelyan said, earnest as could be. _Ass._

“Very well, you’ve rooted me out. There is something I want,” He looked away from Gabriel’s kind face, and stared out the window. He tried desperately to arrange his features into something that didn’t resemble ‘desperate longing,’ but he failed miserably. “I’m curious where this goes, you and I.” He paused, only long enough for Trevelyan to slide his legs up and assume a seated position next to Dorian. His hand found itself on top of Dorian’s, and their fingers interlocked. Dorian swallowed hard. 

“We’ve had fun, perfectly reasonable to leave it here, get on with the business of killing Archdemons and such,” he muttered, rushing through the sentence as quickly as possible, silently pleading with the Maker for this moment to be over. 

“Tell me what you want,” Trevelyan asked, his voice quiet, yet still earnest. Dorian turned to look at him. His eyes were bright, but he was otherwise inscrutable. _Must be taking lessons from Leliana._

“All on me, then?" 

“I hope not,” Trevelyan said, a sudden quiet claiming him. His eyes glittered with the light of the Fade. Dorian sighed. 

“I like you. More than I should. More than might be wise. We end it here, I walk away. I won’t be pleased, but I’d rather now than later. Later might be dangerous.” 

“Why dangerous?” 

Dorian looked down at the ground, his eyes weighted down by the burden of all that could befall them between now and later, and all the ways in which he might be utterly crushed. Kaffas, there was plenty of room in between now and the next few moments for something to crush him. 

“Walking away might be harder then.” 

He’d done it. He’d gotten it out. He’d admitted his feelings. He’d expected some sort of reprieve, a moment of elation, relief that’d he’d finally managed to bring himself to ask this question to Trevelyan, instead of letting it ricochet around in his mind. 

But no comfort came, and he realized that he’d flung himself off a cliff. Now, all he could do was see if Trevelyan would catch him. 

Trevelyan’s hand squeezed his, sturdy and strong, and his other hand reached over, to grab Dorian by the chin and pick his face back up. Dorian finally gathered enough courage to meet Trevelyan’s gaze, and found himself glaring at the face of valiant triumph. 

“I want more than just fun, Dorian.” 

Dorian felt his breath hitch in his throat. His heart burst inside of his chest, and he was certain that he’d heard wrong, that this all had been some twisted illusion. If it weren’t for the delightful ache in between his legs, he’d have sworn he was in a dream. He looked away from Trevelyan for a moment, unable to process exactly what was happening. 

“Speechless, I see.” 

_And how._ He took a deep breath, and thanked whoever – the Maker, the Old Gods, the bloody Elven Pantheon – might be responsible for his good fortune. He’d hoped, and for once, it hadn’t been in vain. 

“I was… expecting something different.” 

Trevelyan laughed, and Dorian was taken aback, his face twisted in shock. 

“I’m sorry,” Trevelyan sputtered. “I just… Really?” 

“What’s so amusing?” Dorian demanded. 

“You’re so cool and confident,” Trevelyan had regained his composure. “And I’ve felt like a bumbling, lovesick idiot this entire time.” He paused, realizing that he’d just laid his hand flat on the table. “I… care for you immensely. I thought that was obvious?” His voice was kind and honest, and he looked deep into Dorian’s eyes as he spoke every work, his hands wrapped around Dorian’s one. 

“No, you did nothing wrong. It’s just that… where I come from, you learn not to hope for more. You’d be foolish to.” 

“This is more, Dorian. Right here.” He grabbed for Dorian’s face, and kissed him deeply, slowly. It was certain and sure, allaying all of Dorian’s fears, and suddenly, it seemed so silly, the anxiety-riddled days that Dorian had spent pondering what Trevelyan had been after. Shouldn’t he have seen it all along? He’d been so hesitant to believe that the look Trevelyan had given him countless times was even the slightest indicia of something deeper, but as he pulled back from the kiss and gazed into Trevelyan’s eyes, he saw it once more, and immediately the fog that had surrounded it was dispelled, and Dorian had recognized why he’d longed to be the subject of that gaze. It was adoration. 

Trevelyan smiled, and pressed his forehead against Dorian’s. 

“Care to inquisit me again?” Dorian offered. Trevelyan chuckled. 

“I was thinking you could do the inquisiting this time.” 

“Very well, then,” Dorian laughed, before rolling on top of Trevelyan, pinning him to the bed underneath him, and finding his lips once more. 

Funny, how they went through the motions, Dorian’s mouth gliding across Trevelyan’s body, Trevelyan’s low moans as Dorian devoured his cock, Trevelyan’s hands grabbing greedily at Dorian’s head, Dorian’s fingers sliding into Trevelyan, like they had done countless times before. But this was different. Every touch felt familiar, yet completely new in its freedom, as though Dorian was walking along a well-worn path but only truly appreciating its beauty for the first time. 

He pushed Trevelyan’s legs back, his dick pressed against Trevelyan’s hole, as he began to slide in slowly. Trevelyan’s eyes stared up at him from below, his face contorted in pleasure, but his eyes glowing at Dorian, the same warmth behind them. Dorian leaned forward to kiss him, relishing in the warm feel of Trevelyan’s taut hole accommodating every inch of him, and the flames within him that had been validated. _This is more_. He'd expected it to be a rush of emotion, but it was simple and quiet, like a gentle reassurance that for this moment, everything would be all right. Dorian pulled his head away from Trevelyan’s and began to thrust gently, when he felt Trevelyan’s hands slide up the side of his face. 

“ _Amatus_?” 

Trevelyan pulled him close. 

“Kiss me.” 

Dorian obliged. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! This took so long. I've probably re-read this chapter close to 10 times and I kept changing things because I wasn't happy with stuff. Feelings are hard. 
> 
> Also, life has been busy. It's been a great summer. I'm not ready for it to be over so soon. 
> 
> So yeah! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! There's a lot packed in here, I think. Hope it was worth the wait.
> 
> Sex scenes are getting harder to write because OMG how many more times am I going to describe semen. 
> 
> I feel like the sex was a little rushed, in comparison to how long I wanted you to feel like it was happening, but eh. I can't agonize over this any longer! Haha.
> 
> As per usual, thank you for the comments/kudos/bookmarks/subscriptions! XOXOXO!!


	22. The Dance at the Palace

Dorian woke, his eyes peeking open, the light of morning glinting off the Frostbacks in the distance. 

It was still early, he guessed. 

He felt Trevelyan’s steady breathing against his chest, and titled his chin down to catch a glance. He laid there, his head pressed against Dorian’s shoulder, as his nostrils flared and his deep, sleepy breaths blew across Dorian’s chest. His hair was tousled, falling in waves that trailed over Dorian’s arm.

It had grown longer. It touched his shoulders when it was wet. Dorian had to stop himself from twisting his fingers through it instinctively.

_He deserves to sleep, and so do you._

His head leaned back against his pillow, and he closed his eyes. Trevelyan stirred slightly, his arm reaching across Dorian’s chest, but he didn’t wake. 

Dorian felt himself slipping back into sleep, surrounded by the fluffy down of the sheets and the warmth of Trevelyan’s body. 

_Oh, that’s right, he thought lazily_ , a smile spreading across his face. _This is more._

___

 

The cold stone of the wall behind him was a sharp contrast to the heat of Trevelyan’s body, which pressed against him, planting kisses in profane places as he jerked hurriedly at both of their cocks.

“We’re going to get caught,” Dorian protested.

“That’s half the fun,” Trevelyan offered. He kissed Dorian aggressively. Dorian’s cock twitched in response. “Besides, you know how much I’d love to get caught. It would put all their questions to rest.”

“Oh, yes. Who exactly is the sword, and who is the sheath?” Dorian rolled his eyes.

Trevelyan’s hands stopped moving. “Really?!” His surprise was adorable. “You’ve heard that one?”

“Please, that’s not even the worst of it.” 

“Does that bother you?” Trevelyan asked, his hands releasing their grip on their respective cocks and grabbing for Dorian’s waist. 

“The presumption that you’re the one on top? Hardly. We all know who’s in charge, even when I’m on bottom.”

“I’ll be sure to have Leliana spread some rumors that I was caught with my pants around my ankles while you took me from behind.” 

“They’d never believe it. There’s not enough blood magic in that story.”

Trevelyan laughed, and kissed Dorian again, his hands resuming their work.

“If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to, you know.”

Trevelyan was kind. He’d been extra mindful of Dorian’s boundaries since their meeting with Ponchard. Normally, Dorian would have thought better of sneaking into the Great Hall to service the Inquisitor on his throne in the dead of night – on the off chance that someone might stumble upon them inadvertently – but Trevelyan had just spent the past 20 minutes thrusting lazily into him, keeping the orgasm just outside of his grasp, and he would have agreed to just about anything in order to finish himself off. 

Trevelyan trailed a finger down Dorian’s crack, and inserted it into him. The sensation tore through him like wildfire, and his cock immediately perked back up, thick and eager, pointing straight in the direction of the man who’d be responsible for his release.

“It’s against my better judgment, but that’s never stopped me before.” 

“Excellent. So, here’s the plan: I sit on the throne, you sit on my lap, we finish as fast as we can, and we run for cover.”

“Easy enough. Do you want to check for interlopers?”

Trevelyan turned, and walked to the door, dissipating from reality. For a moment, it was as though Dorian was along at the bottom of the stairwell, hot and sticky and waiting for an invisible lover. _Imagine someone walking in on you right now._

Assuredly, Trevelyan would re-materialize and save Dorian’s honor. And re-materialize he did. 

“The coast is clear. Let’s hurry.” 

Trevelyan grabbed his hand, and they moved through the door, invisible to the world as the Fade tucked around them. They moved quickly and quietly – well, as quietly at Trevelyan’s bare footfalls on the stone floors would allow – and returned to permanence before the throne. Trevelyan quickly sat down, and Dorian made to mount him, his legs sliding into what little space he could fit them, as he faced Trevelyan. Trevelyan held his cock at the ready, and Dorian eagerly performed his own vanishing trick – making Trevelyan’s cock disappear entirely inside of his ass. 

Trevelyan was right. The thrill of being caught in this moment was heady and intoxicating. Dorian felt a slick streak of precum bubbling at the tip of his cock. 

Trevelyan immediately began thrusting into him, and Dorian followed his rhythm, falling back on to his lap with every thrust and jerking himself as their breathing intensified. Trevelyan’s fingers kneaded themselves into Dorian’s thighs, which burned with his effort.

Dorian felt the sensation beginning to rise, and where he would normally bat it back down for a few more moments of Trevelyan stuffed inside of him, he let it overtake him.

“I’m close,” Dorian muttered between clenched teeth.

“I’m right behind you,” Trevelyan muttered, his gaze intent upon Dorian’s body, as Dorian leaned forward to kiss him.

That always did the trick, it seemed. Dorian felt the explosion, and made no effort to cover himself, feeling the thick, heavy streams coating Trevelyan, who was assuredly glazed like a sugary Orlesian pastry underneath him. He continued to jerk himself slowly – he knew Trevelyan enjoyed watching – and he bent down to kiss him once more.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Trevelyan muttered, and Dorian felt the thrusts intensify, as Trevelyan buried himself deeper and deeper into him, before he finally loosed a quiet moan, his muscles tensing for the explosion. 

“Ah!” he roared silently, as quietly as he could muster. His eyes looked up at Dorian, narrow slits half-shut with the intense pleasure of his orgasm. 

Dorian hoped he enjoyed it. 

The sound of a door opening behind them sent them both rigid. Dorian could feel Trevelyan’s cock pulsing inside of him. _He hasn’t quite finished. Pity._

Trevelyan quickly wrapped his arms around Dorian, and he felt the Fade coating him like a sudden wave taking him underneath the water. He looked down, and couldn’t see either of their bodies.

_Damn useful spell._

He turned his head back, and saw Leliana, making her way toward the throne, a curious look on her otherwise unknowable face. 

“Fuck,” Trevelyan whispered quietly, but not quietly enough. Dorian’s hand instinctively reached up, and tried desperately to cover his mouth, or at least where he thought Trevelyan’s mouth would be, were he visible. 

Leliana stopped at the foot of the throne, and Dorian wondered if she had any inkling they were sitting there, naked, in front of her. She looked down at the throne, and sniffed at the air.

_It probably smells like a bloody whorehouse. Phenomenal, Pavus._

Her nose wrinkled at the odor of sweat and seed, and she turned away, apparently dissatisfied with what she’d discovered. Dorian almost breathed a sigh of relief. 

Of course, he was right not to. She turned back, and looked upon the throne once more, her head tilting slightly as she looked down at the seat. Dorian followed her gaze, and realized the problem.

The outline of Trevelyan’s thighs, pressing into the red leather, and Dorian's shins alongside them, had unfortunately outed the pair. As far as he was concerned, they might as well have been completely visible before her.

“You’re lucky it was me who caught you, and not Josephine. She’d lecture you both from now until the Grand Masquerade.” A light chuckle played at her voice. _At least she’s amused, and not infuriated._

“I should have you know you ruined a perfectly good time,” Trevelyan’s voice, low and quiet, drifted across Dorian’s shoulder.

“That’s not what it smells like. Whose idea was this, anyway? Dorian’s?”

“I see, now. Blame the Tevinter. _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian cursed. It was strange, having a conversation with the spymaster, completely invisible, while Trevelyan was still rock solid inside of him. _Single-minded ass_. She laughed quietly.

“All my idea, I swear,” Trevelyan offered. “And, if you don’t mind, we’ll be on our way. I thank you in advance for your discretion.” And with that, Trevelyan stood up from the throne, which creaked as he shifted their mutual weight off of it. He proceeded to carry Dorian across the Hall, still inside of him, back toward the door, his transparent footfalls loudly echoing throughout the Main Hall. 

“Of course, Inquisitor,” she giggled, before turning and heading back in the direction of her rookery.

They made their way through the door, and Trevelyan heaved Dorian up once more, his cock sliding out of Dorian’s ass, before gently putting Dorian back down on the ground. They re-materialized, and Trevelyan slumped down against the wall, his eyes slightly unfocused. Dorian grabbed at him.

“Are you alright?!” He tried to keep his voice quiet, as to not attract further attention from the Nightingale. _She doesn’t even sleep._

“I’m okay,” Trevelyan managed, his tongue heavy in his mouth. “I’ve never… held on to that spell… for so long.”

“You overdid yourself. You’ll be fine. A sip of lyrium potion when we go upstairs, a good night’s sleep, and you’ll be all right in the morning,” Dorian offered.

Trevelyan’s eyes rolled lazily up to him, his chest still glistening with Dorian’s ejaculate. “You’re too good to me.”

“Not good enough, apparently. This was your idea, and you didn’t even get to enjoy your orgasm.” 

“Never again, I promise.”

“Tell that to the Spymaster.”

“Ugh,” Trevelyan mimicked Cassandra, and picked himself up. He teetered on his legs for a moment, and Dorian ducked at his side, sliding his arm over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Trevelyan muttered, as they began their hike up the stairs, Dorian careful to go slowly, as he drew the Fade around Trevelyan, hoping the sensation would keep him upright.

“What for? I came just fine, thank you very much.” 

“I’m positively envious,” Trevelyan muttered groggily. 

“Alright, enough talking. Let’s get you upstairs.”

They made their way up the stairs without event, and Dorian stood behind Trevelyan as they climbed up the narrow staircase in his chambers. Trevelyan immediately teetered over and collapsed onto the bed, a low, steady groan escaping his lips. 

Dorian chuckled lightly to himself, and ran to Trevelyan’s desk, rifling through the drawers to find the small, glowing, blue bottle. He normally kept them in the top drawer… _Oh._

Dorian saw the letter, folded up, the green wax seal broken weeks ago by Trevelyan. He paused for a moment, before shuffling around, and found what he was searching for. He took the vial to the bedside, and poured a small amount into a wine glass. He grabbed at the two bottles on the nightstand: a bottle of an Antivan white, and a bottle of Nevarran vodka. Neither was an ideal mix – lyrium seemed to taste best with brandy – but the vodka would probably be better than the wine. He poured with a heavy hand, and finished it off by cutting the drink with water. 

He pushed it toward Trevelyan. “Drink. It’ll help you get to sleep, and you’ll feel worlds better in the morning.”

Trevelyan heaved himself up with great effort, and grabbed at the glass, swirling it slightly, the glowing blue dispersed in the clear liquid, but still shining faintly. He took a light swig, and coughed after he swallowed. 

“Hmmm,” he cleared his throat. “Vodka.”

“It was that, or the wine.”

“With lyrium?” Trevelyan muttered in between sips. “You made the right choice.”

“That I did.”

Trevelyan stopped focusing intently on his glass, and stared up at Dorian, a dopey look plastered on his face. His slack jaw tightened into a smile. He leaned forward, and kissed Dorian, the taste of vodka and the tingle of lyrium on his tongue. Dorian bowed down and licked at Trevelyan’s chest, carrying the saltiness back to Trevelyan’s mouth.

“Mhmmm,” Trevelyan muttered in between Dorian’s lips. “You should have cut the lyrium with that.”

“Ass,” Dorian shoved him back lightly, and Trevelyan chuckled. “Finish your drink.”

Once he had emptied the contents of his glass, Dorian took it from him and set him in bed, moving back to Trevelyan’s desk to return the vial to its rightful place. He glanced down at the letter once more, as if it were more dangerous than a mountain of red lyrium. He thought about burning it – and Trevelyan’s desk along with it, for good measure – but he had to respect Trevelyan’s wishes. 

How odd indeed, he thought as he made his way back to the bed, that he should be so angry with people he’d never met, these names-without-faces that he had never encountered, but who’d already crossed him enough for one lifetime.

He tucked himself under the covers, and Trevelyan turned to him, his eyelids already droopy with sleep. 

“C’mere,” Trevelyan muttered lazily. He was fighting the lyrium, as he stretched his arm out to cradle Dorian in the nook.

“Go to sleep, _Amatus_.”

“You’re here. I can now,” he murmured, like a drowsy toddler. It wasn’t long before he slipped away, his body going limp underneath Dorian, his hand still pressed tight against Dorian’s side, as though it were magnetized. He felt the pull of the Anchor’s magic seeping into his torso, and he yawned deeply. He wondered what that strange, glowing scar hid, how much transference between he and Trevelyan was caused by that little fragment of the Fade. He suddenly felt his lids grow droopy, as though the Anchor had responded to his thoughts.

_Kaffas._

As he began to drift away, he thought back to the morning after they’d decided that they wanted more. Trevelyan had brought his letter back to bed, to read it. Dorian had offered to leave and give him some modicum of privacy, but Trevelyan was insistent. 

“I have nothing to hide from you,” he’d said quietly, as he stared at the folded parchment in its lap, the deep emerald wax suddenly seeming more ominous than the Blight. Dorian wondered if he was overcompensating for everything that had happened with Ponchard, but Trevelyan pulled him close and kissed him, and that always seemed to distract his mind long enough to cease his protestations. 

He carefully broke the seal, and unfolded the note. Bright violent ink lined the page, and Dorian caught a whiff of what he assumed was a woman’s perfume. He sneezed violently. 

“Probably whatever dreadful fragrance my mother is wearing this season,” Trevelyan muttered, offering Dorian a handkerchief from the nightstand. Dorian wiped his nose while his eyes remained focused on the letter in Trevelyan’s lap. The writing was loose and looping, flowing elegantly across the page like an unobstructed stream winding its way across a plain. Trevelyan’s eyes moved slowly across the paper, drinking in every word. 

“It’s everything I expected,” he sighed, as he continued reading. “Like she ever gave a shit. Oh, and here-“ Trevelyan pointed at a sentence, but Dorian hardly glanced at the paper, his eyes focused on the man unraveling at his side “- chastising me for attending the Winter Palace at the invitation of the Grand Duke. If she only knew why we were actually going to the stupid fucking Masquerade. To save her beloved Empress.”

Trevelyan had started to shake. Dorian had no idea what to do. He’d never seen Trevelyan like this.

“Ha! Of course. ‘While we’d love to throw our support behind you, my dearest son –' _Bullshit_ ‘– unfortunately, your Father and I are bound to the will of the Chantry, and until the next Divine is elected…'” his voice broke off. He wiped his eyes with his free hand. Dorian wrapped an arm around his back, and leaned his head against Trevelyan’s shoulder. 

“Oh, and the kicker! ‘We would relish the opportunity to come and see what you’ve built, this _little Inquisition of yours_.’” He spat the last few words. Dorian rubbed his shoulder gently, stunned into silence. 

“Of course, she has to use a diminutive, as if the Inquisition is beneath the dirt on her heel. _How dare she_ ,” he sputtered, “After all the hard work that everyone has put in, Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine…” His voice trailed off, and he bowed his head. The tears flowed from his eyes, trailing down his cheeks like angry bolts of lightning.

“Ah!” Trevelyan yelped, before brushing Dorian off and jumping out of bed, running to his desk. “I have a response for _her_ , and I’m sure she’ll appreciate it just as much as I loved her _little_ letter.”

He tore through his desk, grasping hurriedly at blank pieces of parchment that he slammed down on the surface in front of him, before finding a quill and some ink, which he aggressively uncorked, spilling it carelessly, large black blotches covering the papers and letters stacked high on the desk that were assuredly far more important than any response he could hope to compose in this state.

Dorian picked himself up from the bed and moved to his side, as he furiously dipped the quill into the inkwell, and began to scratch at the parchment in front of him as though he were carving up an enemy with his Spirit Blade.

“ _Amatus? Amatus. Amatus!_ ” Dorian yelled, hoping it would stop him. Trevelyan dropped the quill on the paper, and he hunched over the table, as Dorian wound his hands around his arm. “You’re okay. You’re here. I’m here. Just breathe.” 

Trevelyan looked ahead, and then up at Dorian, his eyes crazed and puffy, glassy and coated with his tears. He caught himself, and rubbed at his eyes. Some of the ink smudge along his cheek, like some sort of makeshift Vitaar designed to harden the skin against horrible parents. _You could use some of that yourself_ , Dorian thought.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I must seem like a madman.”

“Not at all,” Dorian offered, and reached his arms around Trevelyan’s back, pulling him into his chest for a hug. Trevelyan wrapped his arms over Dorian’s shoulders and buried his face in Dorian’s neck. He hadn’t been able to cease shaking. 

Dorian turned his head slightly, and tilted his eyes down to the paper, which lay in the middle of the desk, covered with ink, and hardly legible. He could just make out the blotchy writing, where the ink had spilled and puddled. It seemed less a formal communication, and more a piece of artwork that might be preserved for centuries in some museum, having been created by the hand of the Herald. 

_Dear Mother,_

_No, thank you._

_INQUISITOR Trevelyan_

To see him reduced to tears so easily had positively destroyed Dorian. He wasn’t sure why, or how it happened, but suddenly, he found himself quite furious with Madeleine Trevelyan. 

Luckily, in the present, not even that anger could keep him awake. The last thing he saw was the picture of her he’d formed in his mind – the fiery red hair, the aqua-blue eyes, the rosy cheeks that Trevelyan had described, even though he hadn’t seen her in years – and Dorian made an obscene gesture at her.

_Wretched woman. He’s not yours any longer._

___

 

“Again,” Josephine commanded. Trevelyan huffed like a petulant child. “You aren’t going to learn the steps Orlesian Waltz standing there, and you _will_ be expected to dance.” 

“ _Ugh!_ ” Trevelyan yelled to the starry sky, as he turned and grabbed Leliana’s hand once more. 

“And this time, try not to fall into the campfire.” 

Trevelyan flicked the bottom of his robe in her direction, which had been charred when he’d tripped over his own feet and dragged Leliana down with him, desperately attempting to save her from burning herself. She made it out alive. This particular set of dress robes, which Josephine had commissioned for their travels? Ruined. Josephine wasn’t particularly displeased, if only because she was more focused on his dancing.

Josephine began to clap in time. “Ready, and?” Trevelyan breathed deeply, his shoulders rising momentarily. Leliana smacked him quickly, correcting his posture. Josephine began to count – one, two, three – as Trevelyan and Leliana glided across the grassy field in which they’d made camp. They were days away from the Masquerade at Halamshiral, and between learning the names of all the nobles he might encounter, the finer points of Orlesian dining etiquette, how to properly excuse yourself when you needed to find a chamber pot and you were in the company of Empress Celene, and every single dance that he might be asked to perform at a moment’s notice, Trevelyan was practically coming apart at the seams. 

His normally patient tone had given way, and he’d snapped more than a handful of times since they’d left Skyhold. Of course, he apologized profusely, immediately after he caught himself being short, but it had started to grate on everyone, and the entire group had grown weary. Even Vivienne, who was delighted to return to the Winter Palace, couldn’t stop herself from being slightly pessimistic. She and Varric had been speaking one morning, as Trevelyan stumbled through a list of the various Marquis that Josephine suspected had received an invitation to the ball.

“Care to place a wager?” Varric asked.

“Gambling is beneath someone of my stature, my dear,” she replied. 

“I figured you’d say no, but I’m sure you’ll have an opinion on the matter.” 

“Whatever matter are you gambling over now? How long it will take Sera to alienate half the Court, doing irreparable harm to the Inquisition’s reputation in the process?”

“No, but that’s a great suggestion. I’m wondering – when do you think the Inquisitor will crack, and how?”

“My dear, the Inquisitor will not ‘crack.’ He will rise to the occasion, as he has done time and time again.”

The sudden stream of expletives that ripped through the air jolted the three of them, and they turned to look and see Trevelyan, head turned toward the clouds, his fists balled tight at his sides. Dorian watched as the birds in several trees, half a field away, scattered to the sky.

“So long as he can make it through dinner,” she added, her cool voice hinting at worry.

Dorian watched, entranced, as Trevelyan spun around the campfire. When he hit the steps, it was a thing of beauty – graceful, poised, controlled – as though he’d been dancing his entire life. But when he failed, it was ghastly, like watching a giant trip, a slow tumble to the ground, flailing about without an iota of composure. At one point, he had laid on the ground, frozen there for several minutes, as Josephine attempted to coax him to his feet. 

“No. No. I’m finished. I’m through. We are going to the Winter Palace and we are killing everyone in it, except Empress Celene. We have to save the Empress. No one said anything about the rest of the nobility of Orlais.”

“Inquisitor, you know that such an act would only create even more unrest.”

“I’m being hyperbolic, Josephine, but thank you for the harsh reminder that an entire nation’s fate hangs on whether or not I can successfully complete an under-arm turn.”

Josephine sighed, and buried her face in her hands. 

She’d been harassing all of them, individually, when she wasn’t putting Trevelyan through his paces. Reminding Varric not to mention the Carta so casually. Reminding Dorian that drinking himself into a stupor would defeat the purpose of their attending the Ball. Encouraging Iron Bull to avoid public displays of flatulence.

“I’ve been in the presence of nobles before, Josephine. I’m not a complete barbarian,” he gently reminded her.

“Tell that to the scullery maid. She had bruises on her arms for weeks after you had your way with her.” 

She’d attempted to talk to Cole, but realized the utter futility when he promised her that he wouldn’t let any assassins get to her, and to not worry so much about Yvette’s introduction at the Winter Palace. 

She’d chosen her words to Sera carefully. That was to say, word.

“Behave.”

“Listen, Lady Prissypants,” Sera had challenged her. “The Winter Palace? No fun for me. But if you’d like, I’ll keep you company all night. Stand right next to you, so you can always keep an eye out.”

“Whatever will keep you in line,” Josephine retorted, nonplussed. Sera huffed, and stomped away. 

Trevelyan had made it through almost the entire dance without fumbling. He was so very close to completing it, and Josephine’s countenance was positively sunny. Only a few more steps, and he’d be finished.

He brought the dance to a close, to Josephine’s practically raucous applause, and he went to bow, but his knee gave out below him and he knocked into Leliana, who’d been anticipating it, and pushed him back upright. 

“Close enough for the evening?” Trevelyan begged.

“I suppose so,” Josephine replied. “Before you go to bed, I’d like to hear the names of the Dukes and Duchesses, once more.” 

Trevelyan plopped down on the log next to Dorian, and wrapped an arm around his waist. 

“You can go to sleep, you know. You don’t have to sit here and watch me fail miserably.” 

“Please. You do so many things so very well, it’s good to know that the Herald of Andraste falls on his ass every now and again.”

“Speaking of my ass, I’m pretty sure it’s bruised.”

“We have no time for innuendo!” Josephine commanded.

“It wasn’t innuendo! He has… some kind of salve, or something. What is it?”

“It’s a salve.”

“See! A salve!”

Josephine shook her head and rolled her eyes at the pair of them. Dorian laughed. Trevelyan pulled him tighter, and gave him a quick kiss. No one even flinched; they’d all become acclimated to the open affection between the pair. Trevelyan kept it short and sweet, of course, and undoubtedly tasteful, but the Inner Circle at the very least tolerated their little displays. Not that Trevelyan would have accepted anything less. 

The gossip had, of course, flared up, when Trevelyan had kissed Dorian shamelessly in the middle of the Main Hall, and particularly when Trevelyan had whispered, rather loudly within earshot of an exceptionally gossipy noble: _I can’t wait to feel you inside of me later._

Dorian had appreciated the confusion it had engendered, and all of Skyhold collectively furrowed their brow at this new information, trying to piece the pair of them together like a puzzle, as if there was only one way in which they fit. Dorian couldn’t help but laugh to himself, sitting alone in his alcove.

_Now everyone thinks you’re on the receiving end._

_Who cares? We’re having better sex than all of them put together._

Of course, Trevelyan had said this while he was inside of Dorian. When Dorian had pointed this out, Trevelyan had laughed, pulled out, and encouraged Dorian to prove the veracity of these rumors. 

_With pleasure_ , Dorian had offered, sinking into Trevelyan’s ass while Trevelyan left a trail of bite marks down Dorian’s shoulder. 

“Alright, so, the Duke and Duchess of Rialto are going to be there.”

“I’m unimpressed.” Josephine stared at him.

“Sorry. Well then…”

Trevelyan wrapped his cloak around Dorian, to help keep him warm. The fall had set in, and Dorian had resumed his complaining about the southern climate. Trevelyan had taken it all in stride. On a particularly biting day, the wind roaring over the mountaintops, Dorian had found his closets filled with plush velvets and exquisite furs.

_Like some sort of barbarian, wearing dead animal pelts_ , he’d snarked, as he looked in the mirror. 

_You know I’d hand down an Inquisitorial edict that required you to be nude at all times, but then you’d freeze your perfect ass off, and that would be a tragedy_. Trevelyan said, as he finished buckling Dorian into his cloak. It was an exceptional piece, the pearly white fur set against the forest green scales of some exotic wyvern.

_You spoil me. I didn’t need something quite this luxurious_ , Dorian sighed. He thought of the looks he’d get from the residents of Skyhold, wandering the yards wearing something so obviously expensive.

_The other pieces aren’t quite as ostentatious, I promise. But I couldn’t help but get you something a little over the top._

_You catch on quickly_ , Dorian said. He looked at himself in the mirror, and back to Trevelyan, whose face rested over his shoulder. _All right, then. Thank you._

“… and the Duke and Duchess of Lydes, who we installed as head of the Duchy. Duchess Caralina’s husband was quite impressed with Cullen’s men. I should thank her for her continued loyalty to the Inquisition.”

“Excellent work,” Solas’s voice called out from across the campsite. He stood, arms folded, leaning against his staff. 

“Yes, he did wonderfully, but we must continue,” she insisted.

“Solas,” Trevelyan brushed her off, “I refuse to allow them to introduce you at court as my ‘Elven Servant.’”

“It bothers me not, what they might call me,” Solas said, his voice light and kinder than it had been. Trevelyan squirmed uneasily.

“But all that happened at Halamshiral? You don’t think that you deserve a title?”

“Desert is relative, do you not find?”

“Of course,” Trevelyan muttered. “It’s just… wrong.”

“There are many injustices that have been committed at the hands of man upon the elves. My introduction at the Court is not one over which you should lose sleep.”

“You could just let me insist that I have it changed. You deserve the proper respect.”

“You are very kind, Inquisitor. But titles are meaningless, as you very well know. They tell you nothing of a person, other than the power and influence they’ve inherited, or claimed, or had bestowed upon them,” he gestured to the Anchor, which glowed with recognition. “History will remember you as the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor, because of what you built with your marked hand. But your heart, your mind, your hopes and fears, all the things that make you, will not survive you. Only your deeds, and how they’ve impacted the world, will remain.“

“That’s a cheery thought,” Dorian murmured. Trevelyan nudged him in the ribs.

“How about ‘Adept of the Fade and the Arcane’?” Trevelyan grasped at words.

“Because ‘apostate’ would shock the Court so?” Solas smiled at Trevelyan’s efforts. 

“Absolutely not!” Josephine stamped her foot unintentionally. “I have no personal objections to Master Solas and his… unconventional training,” she chose her words as carefully as possible. “You have been a valued member of the Inner Circle, and have contributed enormously to the Inquisition since your arrival at Haven. But the term, ‘apostate’…” She trailed off.

“I understand, Lady Montilyet. No need to be overly diplomatic.” Solas seemed downright cheerful, in comparison to the moody elf that scowled around Skyhold.

“Thank you, Master Solas,” she replied gratefully. 

“I should be off to bed. Goodnight, everyone,” He nodded, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he turned and headed for his tent. 

“Pleasant dreams,” Trevelyan called after him. _How apropos._

“Alright, then, back to-“ 

“Josie!” Trevelyan interrupted. “Please. I made it through the waltz without killing Leliana, and I have the Dukes and Duchesses all sorted out. I know I have more work to do, but please. I just want to go to sleep.”

Josephine narrowed her eyes, considering the proposition. It was the closest to annoyed Dorian had ever seen her look. She turned her head to Dorian. 

“You’ve memorized the list of all the Marquis, correct?” 

“Hardly,” Dorian scoffed. “I haven’t been paying any attention to-“

“I saw you mouthing along when the Inquisitor was reciting them before, and you whispered a name in his ear when he’d forgotten it.” 

_Kaffas._

“Make him go through the list once more before he falls asleep.” Trevelyan groaned, and Josephine waved her hand dismissively in his general direction. “You act as though I derive pleasure from this. But you cannot underestimate the ire of the Court. If we are met with disapproval, we will be swiftly removed from the Winter Palace, and we may not be able to stop the assassination of the Empress.”

Trevelyan’s head sank down, hanging in between his shoulders, and Dorian rubbed his back underneath the cloak that covered them both. Trevelyan picked his head back up, his eyes steeled with whatever resolve he had left. 

“I understand. I promise, I will find a way.”

“I have faith that you will,” Josephine smiled at him, her pleasant demeanor enveloping her once more. _She’s probably just as happy to be finished with this as he is._ “Get some rest. We have a few more long days ahead of us.” 

“Thank you, Josephine. Sleep well.” 

She turned and left, heading back to her tent. Trevelyan and Dorian stood up, and Trevelyan doused the flames with a wave of his hand, covering the embers with dirt. They walked silently, hand in hand, back to their tent. A member of the Inquisition’s forces held the flap open for them. 

“Your worship,” he offered politely. 

“Thank you, soldier.” Trevelyan replied. Dorian nodded respectfully.

They stripped down, and Trevelyan flopped onto the bedroll. 

“Fighting dragons is less tiresome than all of this nonsense,” Trevelyan huffed.

“It may be nonsense, but unfortunately, it’s necessary.”

“Did Josephine bribe you to say that?” Trevelyan asked, his voice muffled by his pillow.

“No need to be short with me,” Dorian chastised him, as he dug through his bag for the salve. Trevelyan had bruised himself in several places. The salve wouldn’t fix the discoloration, sure, but it would help with the soreness, so that he might be able to practice the Antivan Tango tomorrow. 

Trevelyan sighed. “I’m sorry,” he reached a hand out, and grazed Dorian’s back with his fingertips. “You’ve been exceptionally patient with me. I appreciate it more than you know. I will find a way to make this up to you.”

“It’s quite alright,” Dorian said, as he leaned over and started applying salve to the dull brown markings on Trevelyan’s thighs. Trevelyan winced slightly at the contact. “I understand that this is an inordinately stressful situation. But you’ve faced worse than the Court at the Winter Palace, and you’ve always managed.”

Trevelyan sighed, and looked up at Dorian. “Thank you. You are too good to me,” 

“True,” Dorian said, “Who else spends this much time treating your injuries?”

Trevelyan smiled up at him.

“Now, while I finish up, let’s get started on those Marquis.”

Trevelyan breathed in dramatically, as though he were about to put up a fight, but instead, he began to rattle off the list of names, slowly but surely winding his way through the nobles that he might encounter within the walls of the Winter Palace. Dorian finished his work, and slipped underneath the covers of the bedroll. Trevelyan was on his side, and he pulled Dorian’s back against his chest, as he whispered the names into Dorian’s ears, kissing at Dorian’s neck and shoulder between each one. 

The rhythm grew slower as both of them drifted off, and eventually, Dorian realized that Trevelyan had stopped, the names and titles replaced by the steady, even breath of sleep. 

_He can finish that list in the morning._

___

 

Dorian stared intently in the mirror. 

_Maker, you are beautiful_.

He carefully pulled the razor across his cheek, slowly and patiently. There were only a few spots left unshaven, and he was intent on making sure his work was immaculate. The Winter Palace would certainly be filled to the brim with nobles looking for any excuse to tear him down, as if his country of origin wasn’t reason enough.

He felt the birthright sway around his neck. 

_Fucking Orlesians_.

He wiped the residue off his face, dipping a cloth into the basin full of warm, fragrant water below him. Josephine had outdone herself with the arrangements. They were staying at a lovely set of chalets on the mountains overlooking the Winter Palace, just a short carriage ride to its doors. Each member of the Inner Circle and the three Advisors had their own rooms. Save, of course, for Dorian. 

“You look perfect,” Trevelyan mumbled, irritated, sitting next to him. Several Orlesian maidens were fussing over him, trimming the split ends from his hair – “Not too short!” he had ordered, to Josephine’s consternation – filing his nails, and otherwise fussing over his appearance. It took all his willpower to not squirm in his chair. 

“Now that, I knew,” Dorian replied. He’d had his hair cut before leaving for Halamshiral, just a tad shorter than he normally wore it, and in their journey, it had grown sufficiently. He mussed through it, his hands coated in a thin sheen of a light oil, as his hands worked a spell he’d perfected long ago. He watched his hair twist into sleek perfection. 

He curled the edges of his mustache with the excess. Trevelyan huffed beside him. 

“Are we almost finished here?” 

“Only a bit longer, Lord Inquisitor,” one of the women replied. His fingers found their way to his mouth, and he made to bite at his nails, but not before one of the women grabbed his hand and put it back on the armrest of his chair. 

“My apologies. I wouldn’t want to undo all your hard work,” he offered.

“Thank you, Lord Inquisitor.”

They had brushed his hair out, and instead of the tight, slick bun that he favored, they had given his hair volume, pushing it forward so that it rose up from the crown of his head, before winding back to an overly ornate bun that was pulled together with various gold pins, inlaid with rubies. Dorian was reminded of the time that Vivienne had done Trevelyan’s hair – an oddly maternal moment for the otherwise glacial woman – before he had gone to seal the Breach. It seemed as though they were going for a similar style, albeit more complex, twisted and turned by expert hands.

Dorian spread a light fragrance on himself, not a drop more than he would usually use – why waste it on these fools nobles, when Trevelyan loved it so? – and gave himself one last glance in the mirror. 

“All finished?” Trevelyan asked.

“Yes. I’m going to go get dressed.” Dorian looked at the handmaidens surrounding Trevelyan. “And no peeking!” He wagged his finger at them, and they all giggled in unison.

Trevelyan smirked at Dorian, his lips curling slightly at the edges, and Dorian rolled his eyes, leaning forward to give him a quick peck, before turning and walking out the door, the sounds of Orlesian giggles chasing him into the bedroom.

He rifled through his bags. He’d need a fresh undershirt and some clean smallclothes for the occasion, as the somewhat shabby ones he was currently wearing just wouldn't do. He pulled open the drawer of the chest where his garments had been stored, and found his uniform, tucked neatly away. He unfurled it, spreading it out across the bed.

He wasn’t quite sure if it was more or less terrible than he’d remembered.

_Praise be unto the Maker that I’m not wearing this to a party in the Imperium_.

He turned back to the drawers of the chest, and pulled out another drawer, and found an unfamiliar pair of silk undergarments. _Surely another little gift from Trevelyan_.

He reached for them, his fingers running over the soft silk, and he picked them up to give them a proper look. He couldn’t help but smile when he saw them, what little of them there was to see. They were obscene. 

_Trevelyan’s little rebellion_. Hopefully Trevelyan’s were just as revealing. 

He quickly changed into his new smallclothes, which left absolutely nothing to the imagination. He had to stifle his excitement, lest he tear them open.

The shirt came on next, and the pants followed. He pulled his jacket over his shoulders, and glanced at himself in the mirror as he fastened the buttons carefully. The garment fit like a glove, and it was cut flatteringly. _That dwarf certainly was as good as her word_. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled his boots up over his legs slowly, making sure he didn’t tug his pants along with them. He waved his hands over the straps and buckles, and watched them fasten themselves up his legs. He stood up, and looked at himself in the mirror. He may have loathed everything on his body – everything but the undergarments, obviously – but he looked _damned_ dashing. 

He heard the door creak open behind him, and he turned to see Trevelyan’s head poking out. He turned, and caught Dorian’s eye. He stopped for a moment, his mouth slightly open.

“Wow,” he breathed. 

“What? These rags?”

“You wear them well.”

“Naturally,” Dorian purred. “But let’s see you.”

Trevelyan opened the door, and he may as well have knocked Dorian flat on his ass. He stood there, in his uniform, his sash tied, his waist belted. He stepped forward into the room, his head bowed down, and when he picked his face back up to catch Dorian’s eyes, well…

_The Inquisitor_.

“Not too bad?” He asked, his voice smaller than usual, laced with nervousness.

Dorian gathered himself, and walked across the room, and placed his hands gingerly on Trevelyan’s chest, smoothing out the fabric gently. 

“Well, _Inquisitor_. You certainly look the part,” Dorian smiled. He leaned forward to plant a kiss on Trevelyan’s lips, which were taut with nervousness. Still, Dorian hadn’t quite floated back to the ground, and he held on for as long as possible, until the giggles of the Orlesian maidens made the embrace untenable. Dorian pulled away and smiled at Trevelyan.

“I have faith in you.”

“Thank you,” Trevelyan smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We should get your sash and belt on. Or, them, I mean.” He leaned his head back, gesturing at the maidens. 

They took care of the final details, as Trevelyan silently mouthed the names of nobles, his feet tracing a waltz across the floor. It appeared as though Josephine had finally gotten through, quite possibly a little too well. If Trevelyan spent the entire ball in his own head, well... 

Dorian stopped the thought. Trevelyan would succeed. He always found a way.

They stood in silence for the briefest of moments, before a knock on the door helped to dissipate the tension.

“Come in,” Trevelyan’s voice quavered.

Josephine entered, Vivienne following close behind her.

“My dear, you look positively debonair,” Vivienne offered.

“Thank you, Vivienne.” 

“So, are we all ready?” Josephine asked, looking around the room. Dorian nodded lightly and turned to Trevelyan, who was unconsciously biting his lower lip. He relaxed his mouth, and sighed.

“Let’s go.”

____

 

_Well, no major crises thus far_ , Dorian thought, as the members of the Inquisition stood at the top of the stairwell, waiting to be announced to the Court. He looked to his left and to his right, and saw the other members of the Inner Circle, all standing frozen like statues, taking a cue from their fraught leader.

Trevelyan stood off to the side of them, his body completely immobile. Dorian tried desperately to avoid staring at him, worried that he had scrunched his face into an expression of doubt and panic. Funny, how desperate Dorian was for Trevelyan to succeed. 

The moment they’d walked through the gates, Trevelyan’s nervous footfalls had solidified, and Dorian could feel the shift in his energy. _The Inquisitor has arrived_ , he’d thought. His eyes drifted around the crowd, and watched as all the nobles turned to lay their eyes upon Trevelyan. He was legend, given form, and he carried himself thusly. They stared nervously, unsure of how to process a man who was supposedly dropped out of the Fade by the hand of Andraste herself. 

For a group that had deluded themselves into thinking they were above everyone else, a man that had been saved by the providence of the Maker was an anomaly, a wrinkle in their view of the world and its order. Of course, they’d whispered about him behind their silk fans for months, but now that he’d solidified into corporeal form before their very eyes, well… none seemed quite certain how to rectify the problems he presented to their view of the world, and his place in relation to theirs in the well-established hierarchy.

Trevelyan walked tall and proud, befitting a man of his stature, his advisors close at his side, the Inner Circle trailing just behind them, a cadre of allies swathed in red. It was one of those moments where Dorian wished he had the luxury of seeing outside himself, so that he might appreciate the picture – The Inquisitor marching into the gardens that stood before the entrance to the Winter Palace, the Orlesian nobility attempting to gawk and feign apathy at the same time. He’d have to drug himself into the Fade at some point so he could relive this moment through the eyes of the spirits who watched intently, pressed up against the Veil like curious children.

Gaspard had made his way down the stairs, as his name and titles were endlessly shouted to the members of the Court, and Trevelyan breathed in deeply, glancing back at his advisors, who began to move down the stairs, taking their positions with their backs to the bannister that overlooked the ballroom. His glance caught Dorian for a moment, and he smiled, a small, weak thing, but steadier than it had been mere minutes ago.

“Introducing-“ the Court Marshal called out across the ballroom. Silence gripped the courtroom, the sounds of fans snapping open and silk stretching as it caught the air the only noises that Dorian could hear. Josephine nodded, and Trevelyan began to descend the stairs. Dorian swallowed hard. 

“Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan, of the Ostwick Circle of Magi.”

Each footfall hit the step below him quietly. He must have been exerting every little bit of control he had over his limbs, for his steps were sure and steady, if possibly a bit rigid. Dorian preferred the man with the inimitable charm, who swayed slightly in his jaunty step. Dorian also preferred him naked, but he supposed neither would do amongst present company.

“Champion of the Blessed Andraste Herself.” 

He stopped in front of the advisors. Dorian couldn’t see his face, and so busied himself with keeping his own expression in line. 

“Remember to smile, dear. This is all for show!” Dorian heard Vivienne whisper loudly beside him. Trevelyan’s fingers wiggled, to let her know he’d heard her advice, as he begun his march toward the Empress, who had emerged from the shadows at the back of the ballroom to greet the Lord Inquisitor personally.

“Accompanying the Inquisitor, Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena…”

“Get on with it!” She growled.

“Pentaghast. Fourteenth Cousin to the King of Nevarra, nine times removed. Hero of Orlais. Right Hand of the Divine.”

The sound of hands clapping lightly against silk gloves permeated the ballroom. Cassandra remained unmoved, folding her arms across her chest. 

“Madame Vivienne. First Enchanter of the Circle of Magi. Enchanter of the Imperial Court. Mistress of the Duke of Ghislain.”

Vivienne dipped graciously before the Court, smiling across the room at several nobles who waved back to her. Of course, she’d never reduce herself to such baseness by responding with a wave of her own.

“Renowned author, Varric Tethras. Head of Noble House Tethras. Deshyr of Kirkwall to the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild.”

Varric chuckled lightly to himself. “Sounds more impressive coming out of his mouth.” 

“Lord Dorian Pavus. Member of the Circle of Vyrantium. Son of Lord Magister Halward Pavus of Azzaria.”

Funny how he’d gotten so acclimated to the rush of whispers, the deafening roar of a hundred voices, all straining to be unheard except to those in their immediate vicinity. He suppressed a yawn, and stared out at the Empress. A woman had slid to her side – The Grand Duchess, Dorian assumed – and Dorian looked down, watching as Trevelyan had begun to make his way across the floor of the grand ballroom, his head fixed upon the Empress. 

“Warden Blackwall of Val Chevin, Constable of the Grey. Bearer of the Silverite Wings of Valor.”

A huff emerged from the Warden, who stood slouched at the back of the pack of them, his head directed straight at the floor beneath his feet. He’d been particularly miserable this evening. 

“The Iron Bull. Leader of the famed mercenary company, Bull’s Chargers. As the name might imply.” 

A consummate professional, Bull displayed no reaction, standing as still as possible, head tilted slightly to one side. 

“Her Ladyship, Mai Balsych of Korse.”

Sera chortled quietly, a consummate professional of irritating Josephine. 

“The Inquisitor’s Elven…” he paused for a moment, and cleared his throat loudly. “Expert of the Fade, Spirits, and the Arcane, Solas.”

Dorian turned to look back at Solas, who smiled quietly. Funny, how the warmth had finally managed to reach his eyes. He was apparently touched by Trevelyan’s insistence. It was certainly a statement, one that Dorian assumed would shock and appall, at the very least, a few of the Orlesians. 

“Sir Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath. Commander of the Forces of the Inquisition. Former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall.”

The advisors began to follow Trevelyan, slowly following behind him in a single file. Dorian could have only imagined the look that was plastered to Cullen’s face – the Commander had cursed when they’d been discussing the festivities earlier that evening.

“Lady Leliana. Nightingale of the Imperial Court. Veteran of the Fifth Blight. Seneschal of the Inquisition, and Left Hand of the Divine.”

Leliana was absolutely in her element. Her normal prowling walk had been replaced with careful steps, one foot falling delicately in front of the other. 

“And Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet of Antiva City. Ambassador of the Inquisition.”

Josephine followed the pair before here, lining up behind the Inquisitor, who bowed respectfully to the Empress, as Gaspard stormed off toward one of the adjacent balconies. 

The Empress stared down at the Inquisitor, her hands folded politely in front of her. She broke her grasp, and reached a hand forward. 

“Lord Inquisitor. We welcome you to the Winter Palace.”

____

 

Dorian stood in the courtyard, glass of punch in hand, watching the nobles dance around each other with curtsies and courtesies. How terribly droll. 

_And they said the Game was deadly. Funny, I see no bodies_.

Dorian swirled his drink, catching the aroma beneath his nose, and he took a deep swig. It had been a rather lonely evening. He’d attempted to make conversation with Iron Bull, but it seemed that Bull was far more interested in the hors d’oeuvres and the fine brandy that was being served than he was in listening to Dorian mock the nobles. 

None of the nobles had dared approach him, not after they’d put two and two together. _That_ Tevinter, the one who was damaging the Inquisition’s reputation, poisoning the movement from the Inquisitor’s side. Their gazes lingered upon him, and they moved around him cautiously, like they’d just come across a venomous snake in their path, and in a rare moment of self-preservation, gave him a wide berth as to not feel the sting of his fangs. 

_As long as Trevelyan succeeds. Anything for the Inquisition_.

Dorian made a toast to the unoccupied space in front of him, and took another deep pull.

“Ah! Master Pavus!” 

Dorian turned, and saw the Duke and Duchess of Rialto, strolling across the courtyard in his direction. He couldn’t help the smile that had broken out across his face when he recognized them, and they responded in kind.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” he bowed to the pair. The Duchess extended her hand, and Dorian took it, planting as dramatic a kiss on her knuckle as he had the first evening he’d met her. He stood up, and the Duke offered him a hand, which Dorian shook politely.

“Maker’s balls,” The Duke chuckled, and the Duchess slapped his arm lightly for his profanity. “No need for such formality among friends.” 

“Alcide, _please_ ,” the Duchess whispered, a smile betraying her severe tone. “Try not to blaspheme the Maker within earshot of the Orlesian nobility.”

“I will try my best,” he smiled back, and turned to wink at Dorian. “How are you enjoying the evening, my boy?”

“Well, it’s been perfectly calm evening, and the food and drink have been quite good,” Dorian offered.

“Then you’re as bored as we are,” the Duchess snarked back. They all laughed.

“It certainly has nothing on the parties we throw in Tevinter. The difference being that for Orlesians, when a dead body shows up, the night is over. For us, then, it’s only just begun.” 

The Duke roared with laughter, attracting the attention of several nearby nobles, who scoffed at his lack of restraint. No doubt he was Antivan. Putting aside that unforgiveable sin, Dorian was glad to be in their company. 

“Quite right, my boy. It has been ages since we’ve been within the borders of the Imperium, but I think you may have convinced me to pay my acquaintances in Minrathous a visit.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find that nothing has changed. We’d say that’s our charm, and you’d say that’s our problem.”

“And what would you say?” The Duchess asked, her bright eyes warm and attentive. 

“That my homeland is corrupted, but not beyond repair. There’s much of the old that should be thrown out, but there’s plenty that ought to be preserved.”

“Ah, a reformer!” The Duke smiled. “We never had the opportunity to discuss your homeland – your lover was too busy monopolizing our time at dinner.”

Dorian blanched slightly at the mention of Trevelyan. Specifically, at the ease with which the Count had said it, the volume at which he did, and the response of a thousand whispers, like a million little insects humming in the trees on a summer’s night. 

“Alcide!” The Duchess elbowed him delicately. 

“What? You saw the way they look at each other!” 

The appropriate response would have been to walk over the fountain, throw himself in, and sink to the bottom in the hopes that he’d drown, in order to escape the embarrassment he was currently feeling.

The Duke looked back and forth between Dorian and the Duchess. She, in the meantime, mouthed a silent apology to Dorian, implicitly understanding why Dorian would have preferred to avoid this conversation in its entirety. 

“He means no harm, I promise,” she offered, resting a hand on Dorian’s forearm, which had found its way to his other, as they folded themselves across his chest. 

“Of course not!” the Duke added, incredulously. “Two people in love, it’s a beautiful thing.”

_In love?_

The Duchess leaned in close. “I’ve never been one for posturing, and I will not pretend that I know much of anything outside of my little corner of the world. But I know people,” she raised a finger, “and I can tell that you two –“ she raised another, “– are a matched set.” She joined her fingers together, and lowered her head, eyes fixed upon Dorian’s, as if she were revealing some universal truth, and it was of the utmost importance that Dorian understood it.

Dorian gazed back at her. 

_Are we in love?_

“I hope so,” he murmured, as he gazed through her.

“Speaking of the Inquisitor, do you know where he’s been? I meant to greet him after his introduction to the Court, but he was quickly spirited away by the Nightingale.”

“Maker knows where he’s run off to. Hopefully keeping himself out of trouble,” Dorian joked lightly. 

_Am I in love?_

“I heard something about a commotion in the Servants’ Quarters, but it was only whispers,” the Duchess said quietly, so that none might overhear them. Her eyes widened at him.

“Really?” Dorian feigned ignorance. “It wouldn’t surprise me if someone was attempting to sabotage the peace talks.” As much as he might like the Duke and Duchess, unfortunately, trusting them with the Inquisition’s plans would be a foolish move, on his part. Maybe they were a charming pair that had gotten tangled up in the schemes of the Venatori. Whatever it might be, Dorian was wise enough to know that the only allies he had within the walls of the Inquisition were the members of the Inner Circle. Even if the majority of those alliances were tenuous at best.

“This… Corypheus?” the Duke said. 

“It’s quite possible.” Dorian’s voice had fallen to a hush, as to not raise any alarms.

“I hope the Inquisitor is alright,” the Duchess looked off, her eyes filled with concern. She had taken quite the liking to the pair of them, and Dorian didn’t want to upset her.

“I’m sure, wherever he is, he’s absolutely fine.” 

Dorian wanted very much to move the topic away from the dear Inquisitor. The revelation that the pair of them were ‘in love’ was enough for one evening. It had only been a few weeks that they’d even had any sort of formalized commitment to one another. Of course, Trevelyan was smitten with him, and he felt very much the same, but love…?

Dorian wondered why it bothered him so – but then again, did it? That tangle of emotions he’d felt when they’d gone to meet Ponchard, well, it had become clear at that point, if it weren’t glaringly so well before then, that it was more than just a casual fling. And just because they hadn’t talked about what they wanted out of all this until recently didn’t mean that they hadn’t been carrying on like a couple for months prior. 

He thought about Trevelyan’s face, and that stupid smirk he’d have tugging at the corners of his mouth when he first caught sight of Dorian’s face in the morning, the way his hair dripped like waves over his pillow, the feeling of his hands against Dorian’s skin, as he traced lines into whatever part of Dorian he could grab onto.

_Kaffas._

The silence was broken by the sound of the doors to the courtyard opening, and the sudden din of the crowd when they recognized who it was that was gracing their presence. Trevelyan stepped into the courtyard, and the nobility practically fell over themselves to greet him. He took it in stride, bowing his head gently in their general direction, his eyes gazing around until they came across Dorian. 

A severe look shot across his face, a look that Dorian was sure no one else had seen. 

_Trouble. No time to debate how lovestruck we are. Might be. Kaffas._

Trevelyan gracefully greeted each noble politely, laughing and smiling and occasionally stealing worried glimpses at Dorian.

“He’s quite the charmer, isn’t he?” the Duke asked.

“When he’s in the mood,” Dorian replied, his gaze transfixed on Trevleyan. 

Trevelyan had finally managed to drift through the endless sea of nobles looking to court his favor, and Dorian found himself amused, watching how quickly the tides had turned in his favor. He’d been a curiosity at best, when he’d walked through the palace gates, but now, with the favorable reception he’d received from the Empress, well, now he was a desirable ally. Anyone who could curry the Empress’ favor so easily was worth having in their corner, in their estimation, and they wouldn’t squander the opportunity to capitalize on this shift. 

Trevelyan had almost made it to Dorian when a lithe figure stepped in between the pair. She was gorgeous; her raven locks curled and pulled up in an intricate style that certainly must have been quite a weight for her long, elegant neck to carry. She cradled a glass in her bejeweled hand, and her corset cinched her waist into near nothingness, a stark contrast to her full bosom and hips. 

Of course, her face was obscured by one of those silly masks, so for all Dorian knew, she might look like Cabot underneath, mustache and all. He highly doubted that was the case.

Still, Dorian felt a pang of jealousy beating against his heart, and he scowled unintentionally. Surely, this was the kind of woman that Trevelyan should be with – if he had any attraction to them – tall and beautiful and well-bred and politically connected enough to have been invited to the Orlesian Court. She was everything Dorian could not give to him. It nipped at him, made him feel a strange sort of guilt and shame that he’d never had the occasion of feeling before. 

_How much easier your world would be, if she was on your arm instead._

“Inquisitor Trevelyan,” she purred at him, extending her hand forward as she shifted her weight to one leg, accentuating her curvature. “How do you do?”

“I am well, thank you,” he bowed politely, taking her hand for but a moment. Dorian felt the heat around his temples. 

“I am the daughter of the Marquise de Val Fôret,” she introduced herself breathily. 

_Kaffas, she’s coming on stronger than Varric’s cologne._

“A pleasure, my lady. How does the evening find you?”

“Fortunate,” she replied, her Orlesian accent clinging thick to her words.

“Oh? How so?”

“Fortunate to have a moment with you,” she replied, edging nearer. She was uncomfortably close to him, and she raised a hand, resting it upon his shoulder, as though they were about to share an intimate dance. Dorian briefly wondered if lighting her on fire would get only him kicked out of the Palace, or if the entire Inquisition would suffer for his indulgence.

“Tell me, what do you look for in a lover?”

Dorian ground his teeth in his mouth, his jaw set violently. 

“Not someone as desperate as her,” the Duchess murmured at Dorian’s side. 

“ _Ah, mademoiselle_ ,” Trevelyan slipped into Orlesian, and Dorian was furious that he’d be unable to comprehend the response. “ _Il y a quelqu’un qui a déjà volé mon cœur. Vous avais auriez une chance, si vous avais eu un moustache_.”

Her body froze into a rigid position.

“ _J’aime tant comment il se sent quand il chatouille mes cuisses_.”

She gasped loudly into her hand. The Duchess mimicked the gesture, except that she was attempting to stifle her laughter. She buried her face in the Duke’s shoulder, who rubbed her back gently.

“ _Bonne nuit, mademoiselle_.”

He removed her hand from his shoulder courteously, and turned to walk over to Dorian. She stood for a moment, before looking after Trevelyan and catching sight of Dorian. Her mask may have hidden her face, but her body belied its purpose, as shock and understanding both caused her to tense violently, as though she were a tightly coiled spring. She turned and scurried away, clutching at her dress to help ease her escape.

“Inquisitor!” the Duke cheered, and Trevelyan reached out to grab his hand, and the Duke pulled him in for a one-armed hug, their clasped hands between them. Trevelyan’s eyes widened with surprise, as he broke out into a large grin. “How are you, my boy?”

“Much better,” Trevelyan sighed, “now that I’m seeing all of you.” He leaned over, and the Duchess leaned forward to kiss him once on each cheek.

“You dealt with that little tart beautifully, my dear,” the Duchess cooed into his ear.

“Oh, don’t be so hard on her. She’s suffered enough.”

“What did you say to her?” Dorian asked.

“I let her know she wasn’t my type,” Trevelyan replied.

“It was nowhere near that polite,” the Duchess guffawed, reaching out for his hand and cradling it for a brief moment. Funny, how that contact didn’t set Dorian aflame. _Kaffas_.

“My apologies,” Trevelyan insisted. “I’ve been on my best behavior all evening, something was bound to slip eventually.”

They all shared a pleasant laugh.

“I hate to be rude, but I need to speak with Dorian in private.”

“We’ve taken enough of your time,” the Duke offered. “Besides, the other nobles will be jealous that you’ve shown us such favoritism. Antivans! At the Winter Palace!”

“And he still owes me a dance!” the Duchess smiled, nudging the Duke slightly. “Might we see you both in the ballroom later?”

Trevelyan glanced sideways at Dorian, who raised his eyebrows. “I’m not much for dancing, but I wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to spend a few moments focused on something other than the Court’s approval.”

Trevelyan tucked an arm around Dorian’s waist, and they waved goodbye to the Duke and Duchess in unison, who glided off toward the ballroom.

“What happened in the Servants’ Quarters?”

“You’re all business. I haven’t even said hello to you properly.”

Trevelyan turned, and stood in front of Dorian. He was still immaculate, polished and proper, save for a long tendril of hair that had escaped the clutches of his elaborate coif and drifted down his face, a lone, rebellious rivulet of silvery-blonde in the moonlight. Trevelyan smiled, and Dorian felt his heart swell. 

“Hello, beautiful.” 

_In love._

Kaffas.

“You’re lucky it’s me you failed to greet, and not some high-and-mighty Orlesian noble. They’d drag you out of the Palace by the seat of your pants.” 

“I’m assuming that’s what I’ll be doing to you, later,” Trevelyan motioned to the glass in his hand.

“It’s only my second, I’ll have you know. Alright, third. But I am perfectly fine. We’ve been here for hours.”

“Just keep your eyes out for me. We found Tevinter assassins in the Servants’ Quarters, killing everything that moved. Briala’s people are cleaning up the mess right now.”

“So she’s involved as well. Any idea who might be behind the plot?”

“Not quite yet. I don’t think it’s Gaspard himself. We found a knife with the de Chalons family crest carved into its hilt, but it felt like it was a plant. If he’d really hired the assassins, why would he give them his knife? It just creates a trail. Plus, he knows that assassinating the Empress outright would cause backlash. He may have the military might to crush any insurgency that emerged in the wake of him seizing the throne, but it would fracture the nobility and lead to conflict that he wouldn’t be able to quell easily.”

“And you don’t believe it’s Briala, either?”

“She’s a lover scorned, looking to do right by her people, even if her methods are highly questionable. I found this among Celene’s personal effects,” Trevelyan held up a pendant. 

“It’s Elven,” Dorian looked closely, admiring the craftsmanship. “Going through the Empress’ things? Wouldn’t she have you beheaded for that?”

“She would have, I should think, but on the off chance that I am actually Andraste’s Herald, she’d probably prefer to not be the one responsible for my execution. Still, though, she seemed… sentimental, when she saw the amulet, and she all but confessed that she and Briala were, in fact, lovers.”

Dorian gasped, his eyes widening. “Really?” 

“Yes. Focus on the mission, not on the gossip.” 

“Point taken.”

“Briala seemed just as torn up about the amulet. Regardless, she’s angry with Celene, and rightly so, considering the Empress chose political expediency over potential scandal and purged an alienage after a little spat between the pair. Briala seems to have learned the hard way that her actions have consequences, especially when those actions impact an Empress. If Briala were to ally with Tevinter, sneak assassins into the Winter Palace, and _fail_? Elves across Orlais would suffer because of her mistake. It’s too risky, and she doesn’t seem like the gambling type, not unless she’s sure the odds are stacked in her favor. It’s possible, but it’s unlikely.”

“So no leads, then?”

Trevelyan rolled his head around, stretching it out, and closed his eyes while he massaged the back of his neck with his gloved hand. “I don’t trust the Grand Duchess.”

“Hm? Did you speak with her?”

“Danced, actually.”

“And she survived?”

“Ha, ha. You missed it. I actually did very well, thank you,” Trevelyan sniffed.

“Well, now I’m just disappointed I wasn’t there to watch.”

“Too busy looking for wine.”

“Most likely.”

“Back to the matter at hand,” his tone had shifted to chiding. “The Duchess gave me a lead, and pointed me toward the Royal Chambers.” 

“That’s a trap, unless she’s trying to sleep with you. In which case, it’s definitely a trap.”

“Care to find out?”

“A threesome? How could I say no?”

Trevelyan rolled his eyes, and jerked his head back in the direction of the ballroom. He turned to move, and Dorian followed. 

“I appreciate that you were willing to come here,” Trevelyan offered out of the corner of his mouth as he nodded politely at the nobles they passed by. 

“And expose myself to all this exquisite finery and exotic wines? Such hardship.”

“Not everyone’s likely to be friendly,” Trevelyan turned to glance at him quickly. “That’s all I meant.”

“It’s true. You’d think I smelled of cabbages, the way they wrinkle their noses. It’s of no concern, but thank you.”

Trevelyan smiled. “Well, don’t wear yourself out mingling. I expect a dance before this is over.” 

“Dancing with the evil magister, in full view of every noble in Orlais? How shocking.”

Trevelyan rolled his eyes. “They’ll live.”

“You say that now,” Dorian retorted. “If you can find me ten silk scarves, I’ve got a dance that will _really_ shock them.”

____

 

“Finally, some excitement,” Dorian said, as he watched the body twitch to a standstill just beneath him. 

“I’m glad the ball finally measured up to your exceedingly high expectations, but we don’t have time to savor the moment,” Trevelyan shouted, as they continued charging forth through the Palace.

It was a veritable maze, but luckily it never seemed to take them long to figure out that they’d headed in the wrong direction. The group rounded a corner, and heard the rallying calls of Venatori warriors. Trevelyan charged at the pair of them, sidestepping a blow that was intended to sink into his shoulder, and slamming his blade through the helmet of the second warrior, who hadn’t been able to wind up in time to stop him. 

Dorian watched the glow of the blade die out of Trevelyan’s hand momentarily, before appearing through the chest of the first warrior. 

He’d gotten incredibly adept at swordplay. It was unnerving, the grace with which he darted across the battlefield, seemingly a step ahead of his enemies, quick to dodge and even quicker to plant his blade in the deadliest place he could reach.

Dorian had watched him, training one day. He’d been sparring with Commander Helaine herself, and Dorian watched as they clashed violently, their blades pressed against one another's. 

The blade was only as strong as the willpower of its wielder, an ethereal projection of the mind of its owner. And it seemed as though Trevelan’s will had trumped Helaine’s. 

Her blade shattered into fragments that quickly dissipated into the Fade, and she fell back unceremoniously into the dirt below her. Trevelyan immediately retracted his own blade and rushed to her side to help her up. 

_The student bests the master._

“Let’s go. I can hear the voices from the ballroom.”

They continued running forward. Cole rushed to Trevelyan’s side. “The Duchess has returned.”

“She’s in the ballroom?!” Trevelyan shouted. 

“Yes, and she –“ Cole was cut off by the whirl of frosty crystals that wrapped itself around Trevelyan, as he Fade Stepped, whipping his way toward the door in front of them, which slammed open at the behest of Trevelyan’s magic. Trevelyan spun back into reality and skidded slightly, almost slamming into a stunned woman, who screamed a little louder than she ought to have.

Dorian wondered if he would have bothered, if he’d known the ballroom was on the other side of the door.

Trevelyan was busy apologizing profusely to the woman, who had resorted to fanning herself in an attempt to maintain some of her composure. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeated. “Is there anything I can do? Get you some water? Do you need to sit down?”

“No, my dear,” she said, her voice shaky, as she attempted to maintain her composure. “I believe I shall be all right. If you would excuse me, Lord Inquisitor.” 

She bowed respectfully and quickly vanished into the crowd. Cullen rushed to the Inquisitor’s side, filling the void where the noblewoman had been.

“Thank the Maker you’re back. The Empress will begin her speech soon. What should we do?”

Trevelyan stared across the ballroom, at the Grand Duchess, who swayed nervously at her brother’s side. Dorian had half a mind to Fade Step across the ballroom and bury the blade end of his staff in her skull and end this foolery once and for all. Of course, he ignored the idea. Not because it was bad, but because this was not the Imperium. There, it would have been considered an unfortunate hiccup in the evening, and only because the murder hadn’t been committed with a spell or some well-placed poison. 

_Oh well_.

“Wait here, Cullen. I’m going to have a word with the Grand Duchess,” Trevelyan said, starting off toward the stairway, his eyes ablaze. She had gotten a head start, and was rapidly approaching the Empress. 

“What? There’s no time!” Cullen attempted to protest to Trevelyan’s back, as Trevelyan’s feet sped down the stairs. “The Empress will begin her speech any moment.”

Trevelyan darted across the floor of the ballroom, quickly and gracefully, as though he were on the battlefield in his finest form.

He stopped, and called out to Florianne.

“We owe the Court one more show, Your Grace.” 

____

 

Trevelyan had saved the day once again, and the cheers and toasts of the crowd were proof enough that Trevelyan had solidified a new, powerful alliance. Southern Thedas was now beholden to the Inquisition, who had saved their collective asses time and time, and time again. 

He’d stood at the side of the Empress and Briala, his voice ringing across the ballroom, the velvet rasp at a booming pitch. 

_It will take all of us to defeat the enemy threatening our world_.

Dorian had watched, leaning forward on the balcony, and as much as he tried to wipe the stupid, shit-eating grin off his face, he couldn’t be more proud. He beamed across the ballroom. A few nobles below him looked up, pointing and whispering, but Dorian couldn’t care less. At the moment, Trevelyan was the star, and Dorian basked beneath his light. 

He’d succeeded, and with nary a slip. Dorian had long since stopped questioning the Maker’s hand in all of these affairs, because there was nothing left to question. Trevelyan had managed to stumble his way to success time and time again. It was nothing short of divine intervention.

And Dorian was sleeping with him. Thinking about what more entailed, with him. 

_In love with him_.

It was strange, really, how Dorian had never considered what it might mean, if the Maker’s hand had truly touched Trevelyan. If the Maker had put Trevelyan on this course of action, well, Dorian was touched by association. Or, at the very least, injection. 

_Ignore my crassness_ , he prayed silently.

If the Maker had sent Trevelyan to just the right place, at just the right time, to help save Thedas, then would it be so egomaniacal to think that he’d put Dorian in Trevelyan’s path? That Dorian might be a part of his plan for the Inquisitor? 

_Hardly egomaniacal, Pavus. Megalomaniacal, maybe, but then again, you are Tevinter._

He felt someone at his side. He turned, and Josephine tilted her head toward him, her gesture measurably more relaxed than it had been in the days preceding the ball.

“Thank the Maker we succeeded.”

“Indeed. Now you can finally find something new to fret over,” Dorian joked. She laughed, the nervousness still strangling the sound in her throat. It seems she hadn’t shrugged it all away quite yet.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” she said, leaning closer to him. “Trevelyan has been, how shall we say… quite difficult, these past few weeks. I can’t imagine how much worse it all would have been, had you not been around to mitigate the situation.”

“You meant to say he was a stubborn ass, and you’re glad I was around to do the wrangling.”

“In so many words, yes.” She smiled brightly at him.

“I’d say it wouldn’t kill you to be less diplomatic, from time to time, but I’m not quite sure that’s true.” That got a laugh, a light, airy thing that wasn’t the least bit restrained. “Thank you, Josephine.”

“Of course, Dorian.”

They turned to see Trevelyan wave to the crowd one final time, before bowing politely to the Empress and turning to walk toward the balcony behind her. 

“What’s this?” Dorian wondered aloud. He felt Josephine’s hand on his arm.

“You should go to him. You both deserve a moment of peace, after everything that you’ve been through this evening.”

Dorian nodded, and turned to chase after Trevelyan. He made his way along the outer perimeter of the ballroom, edging past the nobility and their ornate, overlarge ball gowns. Several of them raised glasses and cheered as he skirted past them, and he nodded dutifully at them, waving politely. Apparently _that Tevinter_ was no longer a pariah, or at least, a little less so than he had been before. Another delightful benefit of associating with Trevelyan. _Maybe they’ll start serving you the good wine._

He brushed past the last of the nobles, and a guard who’d looked as though he were about to put up a fight, but thought better of it when he saw the red jacket Dorian wore. He edged past the newly-minted _Marquise_ Briala, the first elf who’d ever been made a member of the Court. Dorian would have wasted a few thoughts on her, but he was far more focused on the man that waited just behind the large doors that were set in front of him. 

He paused for a moment, seeing Trevelyan speaking with a woman. _Celene’s Arcane Advisor_ , or so he’d assumed, her raven hair and deep burgundy dress creating a luxurious, yet ominous silhouette against the moonlit night.

She turned away from Trevelyan, and walked toward Dorian, arms swinging haughtily at her sides, as she maneuvered past him. Dorian sidestepped courteously to allow her to pass, but she gave no indication that she’d so much as seen him. He couldn’t help but trail her out of the corner of his eyes.

_Who does she think she is?_

It mattered not. Dorian had far more important things to worry about. As he approached Trevelyan, he saw him, leaned against the balcony, his shoulders slumped slightly with fatigue.

“There was an ancient dowager looking for you. Said she had twelve daughters! I told her you’d left already. You can thank me later. Or now.”

Trevelyan gazed up at him, his eyes light, but their lids heavy.

“But you look lost in thought. Something on your mind?”

“I’m just worn out. Tonight has been… very long.”

Dorian chuckled lightly. “You won! You saved the day. Literally, the day is saved. You should be celebrating! Enjoy yourself while you can.”

A wan smile crossed Trevelyan’s lips, before he turned back to the scenic mountains. He sighed heavily. 

_He’s saved the day. You could do a little more to save his_.

“What you need is a distraction. I have just the thing: let’s dance.” Dorian affected a deep, respectful bow, his wrist circling as he extended his hand to Trevelyan.

Trevelyan seemed to perk up immediately, and stood up, turning back to him. “I was hoping you’d ask.” Trevelyan joined him, their hands clasping together, as they began to step slowly across the balcony.

“Thank goodness one of us has a little initiative.”

Dorian was pleased to find that Trevelyan’s dancing had improved measurably, his step careful and easy as he moved along to music that neither of them were particularly focused on.

“It’s a lovely night,” Trevelyan said. _Does he mean the weather?_

“Hardly. Strange how you southerners think a bitter chill is pleasant.”

“Well, I’m just glad I finally have a moment to spend with you. We’ve saved an Empire, took out the de Chalons, reunited two lovers –“ he spun Dorian around carefully, “– and foiled Corypheus’ plot. All in the span of an evening. I demand a week’s worth of rest the moment we return to Skyhold.”

“As if Josephine would let that happen.”

“Let me dream but a moment longer,” Trevelyan exaggerated a whine. Dorian laughed.

“Fine then, but only because I’m in a particularly generous mood.”

They continued to drift lazily about the balcony, slowly and patiently, all the while catching glimpses of the other staring intently, and breaking away, like nervous teenagers who’d never had the pleasure of dancing with the object of their affection before.

_But really, isn’t that the case?_ Dorian had certainly never danced with a lover before, not in private – unless you were trying to be poetic and aimed to described fucking as a sort of dance – and certainly not in public.

Trevelyan paused for a moment, his feet gliding to a standstill, and he leaned forward and kissed Dorian, his tongue delicately parting Dorian’s lips, massaging Dorian’s own. 

“Thank you for these past few weeks. I would have gone mad without you,” Trevelyan offered.

“Let’s be honest: You were close, on several occasions, regardless of my involvement.” 

“That’s true,” Trevelyan chuckled, the choppy, staccato raspy breath that Dorian had grown to adore. He froze, suddenly, his eyes wandering up toward the night sky.

“What is it?” Dorian wondered, turning quickly to follow Trevelyan’s gaze. He heard the music swell from inside the ballroom. 

“It’s a song. A _Marcher_ song!” Trevelyan said, surprised and confused.

“They must be playing in your honor,” Dorian said. He felt Trevelyan move to his side, and take hold of his hand.

“Well, then, it would be rude of me not to listen. Would you care to take this dance to the ballroom?”

Dorian felt the heat rise up in his cheeks. _In front of everyone?_ He looked at Trevelyan, whose eyes looked at him kindly, with the sweetest sincerity. He felt the beating in his chest, and he felt as though he were going to swallow his tongue. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know any Marcher dances,” he offered. “They don’t teach us anything quite so base back in the Imperium.”

Trevelyan guffawed loudly. “You’re such an elitist. Come, I’ll teach you all the steps. It’s very simple. Someone of your talent and breeding should be able to catch on quickly.” He pulled at Dorian’s hand.

“Are you certain?” Dorian asked, his voice quieting slightly.

“ _Maker_ , is this about a bunch of silly nobles judging us?” Trevelyan huffed, not amused by Dorian’s persistence. “I just saved their Empress, their Empire, and all of Thedas. My stock is high; I’m sure it could take a hit and survive.”

Dorian’s face twisted into displeasure. “I was joking,” Trevelyan offered. “Come on, before the song is over.”

Dorian sighed in acquiescence, and Trevelyan led him back into the ballroom, his pace quick and lively. When his face appeared, leading Dorian down the stairs to the dance floor, the crowds cheered and shouted, eager to watch their Inquisitor honor them with another splendid dance. 

He led Dorian to the side of floor, and they watched for a moment, looking for an opening as Trevelyan pulled Dorian into the correct posture. 

“Alright, it’s a quick step, but it’s undoubtedly simple. You see? I’ll lead you in, your first step’s on the right foot.”

“My right or your right?” Dorian called over the din. Trevelyan laughed. 

“Stop thinking and just go. Ready, and, one, two, thee, and…”

They flew into the crowd, skipping along in time with the rhythm, blending seamlessly into the dance that was already in progress. Dorian did his best to keep up, and Trevelyan was surprisingly graceful, considering all of his falls and false starts during the past few weeks of dancing around campfires.

“You’re very good at this!” Dorian shouted above the din.

“I’ve had a lot more practice, believe me!” Trevelyan shouted back, as they continued to spin around the room. Dorian had finally found the rhythm in his own feet – thankfully, he was a much quicker study than Trevelyan – and was keeping up. 

“Not too shabby!” Trevelyan called out, leaning in as much as the hold would allow.

“Like you said, it was simple. And if you could learn it, couldn’t anyone?”

Trevelyan laughed joyfully, and it spread to Dorian, as they continued the movement, quick and lively, while the song began to wind down. 

“Alright, a bit of a flourish at the end, here, and…” Trevelyan’s voice trailed, as he led Dorian through an uncomplicated turn, and a quick twist, and it finally came to an end. The crowd cheered wildly as the music died down, and Trevelyan turned to wave politely at the crowd, who shouted his praises adoringly.

“You’ve certainly made your fair share of fans this evening,” Dorian murmured.

“It’s because I’m so charming,” Trevelyan deadpanned quietly.

“Ha! Hardly,” Dorian snickered.

The music picked back up again, a slow, elaborate piece that relied heavily on the strings in the orchestra. Trevelyan turned, breaking his hold on Dorian and bowed deeply. 

“Would one more be too much to ask?” Trevelyan smiled.

“Not at all,” Dorian took his hand, and Trevelyan pulled him in close, closer than he ought to be, standing in the middle of the ballroom in the Winter Palace.

“Careful, there,” Dorian protested.

“I’ve been careful all night. I think I’ve earned this.”

He lead Dorian in practiced steps, his focus shifting between Dorian’s face and his own feet. He wasn’t nearly as graceful in this particular dance, but he was trying, and even if his footfalls were a little heavy, he didn’t appear to be having any difficulties from the waist up.

Dorian smiled at him. 

“I’m glad I had a chance to dance with you this evening,” Trevelyan said, his voice distracted by his movements. Dorian would normally have found the lack of expertise a complete turn-off, but on Trevelyan, it was a charming quirk, an adorable effort. At the very least, he’d seen much worse. 

_Maker, you’ve fallen. You love him. KAFFAS!_

“I am, too.”

___

 

It had grown quite late, and Dorian had been lucky enough to pry himself away from Trevelyan and the throngs of nobles desperately seeking to curry whatever favor they might with the _Inquisitor._

He’d entered the ball, in their estimation, as little more than a troubling curiosity, and now they were doing everything short of throwing themselves on their knees before him, so as to not dirty their finery.

_How unsurprising._

They’d even been so kind as to address Dorian politely. Obviously, he had the Inquisitor’s favor – and his heart, but that was irrelevant – and should be treated as a stepping stone, one upon which they’d boost themselves up to reach the exalted prize. _Trevelyan._

Dorian had seen through it all, and had a feeling Trevelyan had, too. At a certain point, he’d had enough, and had wandered away to traipse through the Palace. He’d caught a glimpse of the library perched high above one of the ornate passageways earlier, and made quick work of magicking open the door and sneaking into the stacks.

Of course, it was filled to the brim with much of the same nonsense as the library in Skyhold, steeped in Chantry rhetoric, hardly any of it interesting. Dorian had to suppress the habit he’d developed of callously tossing particularly problematic tomes over his shoulder. 

_You ought not do that at Skyhold, either. You nearly hit Solas once._

Or maybe, you should work on your aim.

He’d stopped reading the words on the bindings, only looking at the books to make some sort of guess how long they’d been collecting dust in here. He wondered if anyone had even used them in the past century.

“I knew I’d find you here.” 

He turned, and saw Trevelyan, standing at the end of the stack across from him, smiling broadly. Dorian turned back to the books in front of him.

“Where independent thought goes to die, amongst a sea of pages filled to the brim with the empty words of Revered Mothers past?”

“Is that all they have?”

“What, were you expecting the Library of the Circle of Minrathous?”

Trevelyan chuckled lightly. “I suppose that was too much to ask for.”

“Walking out of here, not only having saved Empress Celene, but as the anointed Champion of Orlais was too much to ask for, and yet, you’ve managed once again.” Dorian’s finger scratched at the binding of a particularly old book, and he watched it crack underneath his finger. He’d be more interested in preserving the text if it weren’t shit slapped between two covers. 

He heard Trevelyan’s footsteps on the cold marble, and felt his breath on the back of his neck. Every little hair stood on its end.

“I hope it’s not too much to ask for a moment alone in a dark corner with you.”

Dorian turned around. Trevelyan looked at him, his eyes glazed over.

“How much have you had to drink?” 

“Not nearly enough to make this party any more interesting. Come on. There’s a little room, just over there. We can slip through the door and I can slip my hand down your pants,” Trevelyan murmured, his hands grasping a handful of Dorian's privates, massaging him gently through his trousers. His voice gave no hint of inebriation, but Dorian could smell the alcohol on his breath. 

“You didn’t think to bring me any wine?”

“I will personally plunder their assuredly exceptional _caves_ the minute I am finished with you.”

Dorian considered it for a moment. Skulking into the shadows of the Winter Palace with Trevelyan was much more exciting than anything else that had happened this evening; attempted murder at the hands of the Grand Duchess included. And celebrating their tryst with the finest wines in Orlais afterward? 

“I’m sold. But I’m holding you to that promise.”

“Deal,” Trevelyan muttered, and he kissed Dorian, his tongue warm and swollen and sweet with the taste of wine. Dorian savored it, as he felt the Fade wrap around him. Trevelyan tugged at his arm – his invisible arm – as he pulled Dorian toward a room at the end of the library, tucked away next to a staircase. They slipped through the door, and Trevelyan was instantaneously shoving Dorian into the wall, kissing him profusely, a vulgar display of frenzied lips and furious tongues working against each other like rough waves on a sandy shoreline. 

For a moment, Dorian felt a creeping sense of déjà vu, as though he’d been in exactly this position before. It slowly dawned on him that, yes, he had. Countless times, at countless parties in the Imperium, always with a different suitor, but always the same steps to the same dance. 

A sour taste seemed to permeate his mouth, or maybe he was just imagining it. Either way, Dorian's past indiscretions seemed to be reaching into the present, to taint this moment with a sense of cheapness. Dorian felt Trevelyan pull away, and he opened his eyes to see his face looking back at him, concerned.

“Is something the matter?” 

“Not at all,” Dorian lied. The little white kind, designed to spare feelings and utilized to deflect awkwardness, he rationalized. “Why do you ask?”

“You just seemed a little… out of sorts,” Trevelyan trailed his fingers along Dorian’s back.

“Just had a passing thought, is all,” Dorian offered.

“About what?” Trevelyan asked, leaning in to kiss Dorian on the corner of his mouth. Dorian lips moved reflexively, shifting towards the warm softness of Trevelyan’s own.

“Nothing important,” Dorian shook it all away. Trevelyan looked up at him, uncertain of how to proceed. Dorian took charge, and leaned forward, catching Trevelyan’s mouth in his, feeling the fires reignite, helping to keep his mind quiet. 

_This isn’t Tevinter. This isn’t a nameless suitor._

This is more.

Trevelyan kissed down Dorian’s chin, nibbling at Dorian’s jawline, as Dorian’s hands found themselves grabbing desperately at Trevelyan’s cock. He was determined to earn that bottle of wine Trevelyan had promised. His fingers searched and found the buttons that held his pants in place, and began to undo them. Trevelyan chuckled like some sort of demon, possessed by lust and drunkenness. 

Dorian spun Trevelyan around, shoving him into the wall behind him, as he dropped to his knees. He tore the gloves off his hands, and unfurled Trevelyan’s cock from his pants, stroking it gently, appreciating its length, its thickness. 

“You’re wasting no time,” Trevelyan smiled down at him.

“We can’t have you away from the adoring masses for too long,” Dorian snarked, as his mouth wrapped around Trevelyan’s cock, and took him into his mouth, sucking furiously. He twisted his head slightly as he rose back up, and Trevelyan moaned, his hand finding its way to the back of Dorian’s head.

“ _Fuck_.”

Dorian continued his work, eagerly bobbing on Trevelyan’s cock, his pace blinding as he consumed as much of Trevelyan as his throat would accommodate. Occasionally, he would push further, his lips brushing the well-maintained hairs above Trevelyan’s dick, and Trevelyan would buckle with pleasure, his knees shaking like saplings in a tempest. 

“Maker’s balls,” Trevelyan muttered, as his hips began to rock forth into Dorian’s mouth. “You’re really trying to finish me off, aren’t you?”

Dorian pulled back, his hand replacing his mouth, its motion steady on Trevelyan’s cock. 

“What gave me away?”

“I figured you’d be interested in getting yourself off as well.”

Dorian looked up at him. “You have my attention.” He squeezed Trevelyan’s cock a little tighter, and Trevelyan sighed at the increased pressure. Trevelyan grasped at his coat, his fingers slipping into a small pocket. From it, he produced a tiny vial of oil.

“I’m assuming you wouldn’t be opposed to fucking me?”

Dorian smiled, and rose up to greet Trevelyan with a kiss. He grabbed the vial from his hand, and spun him against the wall, his ass covered slightly by the red coat, but exposed enough so that Dorian might bury his cock deep inside. 

“Don’t waste time,” Trevelyan muttered, as Dorian’s fingers dove into Trevelyan’s hole, slick with an oily sheen.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Dorian said, pulling his digits out of Trevelyan and coating his cock generously. The vial was empty, and he placed it on a small crate to the side of them. He pressed the tip of his cock against Trevelyan’s hole, which gave way quickly as Trevelyan moaned with pleasure. Dorian moved slowly at first, deeper inside of Trevelyan, as Trevelyan twitched with delight, his hole puckering with every breath. 

Dorian pressed up against Trevelyan, and grabbed his cock with his hand, slowly stroking at him.

Trevelyan twisted himself, his head turned back, gazing dreamily at Dorian. 

“I’m all yours, beautiful.” 

Dorian didn’t need any further permission. He began to thrust, shallow and short at first, and Trevelyan’s body responded in kind, spreading his legs as wide as possible with his pants around his thighs, and his impossibly inappropriate smallclothes stretching to their capacity. He curved the small of his back, allowed Dorian the chance to thrust even deeper inside of him, as the thrusts became longer and faster. 

Dorian continued to stroke Trevelyan’s cock, and Trevelyan pressed himself against the wall, his hands and chest flat against the surface, as his moaning descended into a guttural, arrhythmic grunting. 

Dorian would normally have chastised him for allowing himself to get this close, this quickly, but the masquerade had not ended, and there were still nobles that hadn’t attempted to maximize their perceived favor with the Inquisitor.

“I’m close,” Dorian muttered, and Trevelyan clenched down, tightening around Dorian, who nearly keeled over at the sensation. He grabbed Dorian’s hand, which had begun to lose its pace on Trevelyan’s cock, and guided it up and down the shaft. Dorian felt himself beginning to buckle, and saw that Trevelyan had about melted into the wall in front of him.

With one final groan, he felt Trevelyan begin to shudder violently, his moans barely stifled by his clenched teeth. Of course, once Dorian had confirmed that Trevelyan had indeed blown his load, courtesy of the stickiness all over his own fingers, Dorian felt the sensation snare him and drag him down violently, a flurry of final thrusts as he clawed his fingers into Trevelyan’s hips and felt the familiar, sweet release. 

Trevelyan continued to bob gently against Dorian’s cock, as he turned to kiss him, Dorian’s hands still rather occupied: one stretched across Trevelyan’s hip, his fingernails buried in the smooth, supple flesh, and the other wrapped around Trevelyan’s cock, still thick and sticky.

“Mhmmm. I hope you don’t think that’ll do for the evening. I look forward to a much longer performance later,” he purred. 

Dorian finally pried his fingers from Trevelyan’s side, and reached for a handkerchief. “I didn’t expect that it would. You’re insatiable. I could have fucked you for four hours, and you’d still be looking for more.” 

“I hope that’s not a problem for you.”

Dorian thrust again into Trevelyan, who gasped at the sensation. “Hardly.”

They cleaned themselves up with Dorian’s handkerchief, which he tucked hastily back into his pocket, praying its contents wouldn’t seep through his pants. Trevelyan went to pull his back up, and stopped.

“Uh-oh.”

“What?” Dorian asked, searching his face and following his gaze down. In between his fingers, Trevelyan had two ends of his smallclothes, which had been ripped apart in the heat of the moment. 

“So much for these,” he sighed, and proceeded to rip the other side, peeling them from his body and tucking them into his breast pocket. He pulled his pants back up around his waist, and planted his hands on his hips. Dorian began to laugh uncontrollably.

“What?” Trevelyan asked.

“I thought those undergarments were offensive, but your pants without them? Are you trying to have your dick introduced at Court?”

“It’s not that bad!” Trevelyan looked down. “My jacket covers up most of it.”

“Just not the bits that go halfway down your leg!” Dorian tried desperately to keep quiet. He felt his eyes beginning to tear up with laughter. 

“Well, you laughing and pointing at it certainly won’t help deflect attention,” Trevelyan rolled his eyes. Dorian stifled his laughter to pull Trevelyan close, pressing his body up against his and looking deep into his eyes. He maintained his composure for but the briefest of moments, before bursting out into laughter once more.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He gasped, as Trevelyan tried to pull away. “Stop! I’m finished, I swear!” Trevelyan stopped fighting, and Dorian pulled him in for a hug, wrapping his arms over Trevelyan’s broad shoulders, a feat that required precise maneuvering. 

“I’m very proud of the way you’ve handled yourself this evening. You have the court in the palm of your hand.”

“I’m not looking to control them,” Trevelyan muttered.

“I never said you were, just that they will be more amenable, now, when you require their aid.”

Trevelyan sighed. “Well, thank the Maker, it’s almost over. An hour or so, and we can leave.” 

Dorian kissed him once more, appreciating the silence of the tiny little storage room, how removed he felt from all the intrigue and machinations that lurked just beyond the locked door. A pang of nausea hit him, reflexively, as he thought about returning to the party after their little tryst. 

_But this time, you’ll be walking at his side, not slipping off in different directions to deflect suspicion._

Trevelyan pulled away, and wrapped his hand in Dorian’s.

“Shall we return to the party?”

“I believe there was a promise of wine, that was made to me, by you?” 

Trevelyan snorted, shaking his head. 

“All right. To the _caves_.”

The Fade wrapped around them once more, as they walked through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello there! Another update. They just keep getting longer and longer. I need to learn how to write like, a few thousand words and just stop. 
> 
> If you'd like to know, at this point, this story contains more words than any of the individual novels from the Lord of the Rings trilogy. I don't know whether to proud, or disgusted. I always err toward the latter. 
> 
> ANYWAY.
> 
> YAY! WE LOVE BALLS! I actually really liked Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts. Some of the stuff was a bit wonky (so many little glitches with the eavesdropping mission, and the Halla statues were poorly explained, not to mention that you have literally no idea how to pick the ruler you want to lead at the very end, unless you look to a guide). But I think it was an interesting diversion from the other stuff - the battling and fetch quests and whatnot.
> 
> Josephine is an iron fist in a velvet glove, and I love her. I wish I had more interactions between her and Dorian. We'll see.
> 
> Solas uses the word "desert." Not in the geographical sense, but the philosophical sense. The idea of being deserving of something, whether good or bad. Like "just desserts" but smarter!
> 
> The FRENCH! Trevelyan says, "There's already someone who has stolen my heart, but you might have had a chance if you'd had a mustache. I very much love how it feels when it tickles my thighs."
> 
> FILTHY.
> 
> Oh, and they're so in love. Please. Dorian's all about it. The internal freak-out will be coming a little bit heavier, when there isn't wine and murder distracting him.
> 
> Next time: Some filler chapter before the Western Approach! Probably a little lighter than this chapter was. Hopefully. I make promises and then break them to pieces.
> 
> As always, thank you thank you thank you for the comments, kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks, views, well-wishes, positive energy, etc. etc. etc. Summer's almost over, and I'll be descending into the misery of fall (why does it have to get cold, EVER?) and I'll be back at school (AKA needing a distraction) so I'll hopefully be writing a bit more. We'll see.


	23. The Giants of the Graves

“We ought to be going. It’ll be dark soon.” 

“Just a little longer.” 

Trevelyan tried his best to suppress his agitation, and for the most part, succeeded. “All right.”

He walked back to the group. Dorian was sitting on the ruins that had surrounded the dragon’s lair, perched precariously on a cliff that overlooked more forest, more trees, more elven graves. The forest was the worst kind of war memorial, the lush greenery a winding, twisting, rugged testament to the slaughter that had occurred here ages ago. The tree of peace was a thirsty sort, and carnivorous to boot, drinking deeply the blood of those too weak, too powerless to fight back. 

Sera was busying herself toying with her arrows, checking the fletching and the points. She’s pried just a few from the corpse of the dragon after it had fallen. They were coated in its blood. It made no difference to her. 

Solas stood quietly, watching the surroundings for fear of a giant encroaching upon their momentary resting place. His solemnity was not entirely unsurprising, considering their current location.

Cassandra paced back and forth, eager to return to camp for the evening. Whatever wellspring of patience Trevelyan had accessed, she couldn’t seem to reach.

“How much longer is he going to stare at it?” She asked, as Trevelyan strolled back to the group.

“I’m not sure. Not too much longer, I hope,” Trevelyan responded, his eyes lingering upon the treetops, and the setting sun in the distance.

“Time for a new name for that one, yeah? Mr. Mopey-knickers?” Sera chittered.

“He’s having a hard enough time with all of this. I don’t think a new pet name will help.”

“Well, how long do you think it will take then? A few more moments of staring into the eyes of a dead dragon, or several years of agonizing soul-searching?” Dorian wondered aloud. 

“He’s only been Tal-Vashoth for a few weeks now,” Trevelyan chastised, his voice kind, but quietly berating the group for their lack of understanding. “I remember when I was taken to the Circle, how everything I’d ever known was gone in an instant. But I was just a boy. He’d spent his entire life under the Qun. I imagine he feels much like he lost a limb. Or maybe that he _is_ the severed limb.”

Trevelyan had turned back to gaze upon him, the mountainous Qunari – Tal-Vashoth - warrior that seemed all but impenetrable. 

“But what’s a dragon got to do with any of that?” Sera whined.

Trevelyan sighed. “After we’d killed our first dragon, he dragged me to the tavern for a celebration. Made me drink some horrific concoction, in honor of the occasion. He’d said that he felt a connection to the dragon, something primal that he couldn’t quite articulate. At least, that’s what I gathered.”

“That’s a shite answer,” Sera huffed.

“He said that dragons were power that couldn’t be tamed, and so, they have to be killed. I think he wonders now, without the Qun to keep him in line, if he’ll end up a magnificent corpse like the one he’s staring at right now.” 

A breeze blew through the treetops. The distant, heavy footfalls of giants in the background reminded them that, indeed, it was about time to leave.

Trevelyan returned to the Iron Bull’s side, to plead for his departure. Solas returned to the group.

“He should be happy, to be free of the Qun,” he nodded at Dorian.

“I’m not arguing that point,” Dorian replied. “One less Qunari aimed mindlessly at Tevinter.” 

“His compatriot got under your skin,” Solas smiled. 

“His _former compatriot_ , let’s not forget. Pissant little elf. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Tevinter’s corruption is unquestionable, no doubt, but the Qun doesn’t even allow that question to be raised. It’s mindless obedience to untenable ideals.”

“The lot of you can piss off,” Sera interrupted, walking past the pair. “Hey, the both of you! Yeah, over here!” she shouted at Bull and Trevelyan. “I’d like to make it back to camp before something too big for its breeches tries to eat us, again!” 

Trevelyan shook his head lightly, and turned back to Bull, who bowed his head and started walking back to the group. 

“You’re right,” he grunted. “Let’s get going.”

He marched forward, and Solas and Cassandra trailed behind him. Trevelyan stopped and reached a hand out toward Dorian, to help him from his perch.

“Liked him better before, even with the Ben-Asshat nonsense. Least he was fun to drink with,” Sera said, as she zipped toward the rest of the group. Trevelyan sighed.

“You shouldn’t indulge him,” Dorian offered. “I’m not saying he shouldn’t grieve his loss, but for Maker’s sake, allowing him to get misty-eyed over the corpse of a dragon is only going to convince him that he will become that beast.” Dorian poked a finger over toward the dragon, which lay completely benign amongst the wreckage.

“Hmmm,” Trevelyan considered the idea. “I’m not sure what to do. Is it even my place to say?” He sighed, and they started to walk after the rest of the group. “I’m straddling the line between friend and leader, and it complicates things endlessly. Your advice would be easier to take, were I more removed from the situation.”

“You mean more removed from Bull? I can’t imagine you’d have much sympathy after your potential alliance with the Qunari fell through.”

“That wasn’t his fault. I’m almost positive this was a test of his allegiance. He made his choice. The least I can do is honor that choice, and try to help him through it all.”

“Much like you helped Cassandra? She was pleased to find out that the demon who’d replaced the Lord Seeker was possibly the saner of the two. I’m not sure if she’s stopped scowling extra about it, or if she’s reverted to her plain, everyday scowl.”

“Still upset I was gone for three weeks?” Trevelyan tilted his chin upward, looking down his nose at Dorian, a smirk on his face. 

“ _Fasta vaas_.”

“I missed you terribly, too,” Trevelyan had stopped, and stared at Dorian. His hair drifted along with the breeze, and Dorian turned back to watch it play in the wind. 

He made it far too easy to love him. _Ass._

Dorian kissed him, and used the distraction to work a healing spell into Trevelyan’s side, where he’d fallen during the battle. Of course, he’d insisted on patching himself up, and while his magic had improved immensely, his healing still left something to be desired. A proper healing spell required patience, dedication, focus.

Trevelyan’s teeth grazed over Dorian’s lip. _Focus._

“You only kissed me so you could fix my handiwork.” 

“Can’t it be both?”

Trevelyan smiled. “I’ll take whatever I can get.”

The roar in the distance stopped them both, and Sera’s screaming voice cut through the air.

“Pissbucket bloody friggin’ giants!”

The pair of them dissipated into Fade Steps, twisting along the path towards the noise, weaving in and out of each other’s paths, like a braid of ice through the evergreen forests of the Graves. 

They stopped, and saw the horror before them. Two giants, stalking over toward the group, and a third, already attempting to swat at Iron Bull, who met its hand with his axe. 

“We’re low on potions!” Cassandra shouted. 

“I hate to relegate you to healing duty,” Trevelyan murmured, his Spirit Blade glinting into reality before him.

“That’s a bald-faced lie,” Dorian cursed him, as he sped off toward the beast, blade in hand. Dorian sent a warm wave of healing light to Cassandra, who’d been knocked back by the swipe of the second giant. 

“ _Kaffas._ ”

___

 

It could have been worse. They could very well be dead. 

Not that they wouldn’t be, in mere moments. They’d managed to fell a pair of the giants, slowly but surely, but not without heavy damage to the lot of them. Sera limped around the battlefield, sending arrows into the side of the remaining giant, which were little more than pinpricks to the great beast for all they slowed him down. Cassandra’s shield had been beaten into some unrecognizable form, as she was knocked back one final time. She tried to stand up, but her legs shook violently beneath her and the best she could do was lean on her mace. 

Solas had drawn upon the last of his reserves, and there was no Fade around him to pull any further. He had run in, slashing at the hide of the beast with his staff blade, but his strikes were practically worthless. Bull’s body lied on the ground, face down in the dirt. The back of his head was drenched in scarlet. Who knew how much longer he had. Dorian wanted desperately to heal him, but he had strained himself trying to alleviate all the damage the giants had done. Any healing spell Dorian might have conjured would have done little to staunch the bleeding, let alone help Bull regain his consciousness. 

Trevelyan, however, continued to lash out at the beast, digging his Spirit Blade into its legs, as it howled violently in response and attempted to swat him away. But Trevelyan had been too quick. The Fade still swam around him, although his deep reserves were nearing exhaustion. The Spirit Blade blinked in and out of existence against his will. He scowled angrily at the beast, as it kicked Solas several yards across the field. 

And Trevelyan stood alone. He launched a fireball at the giant, who turned around, completely unfazed, and began to walk over to a large boulder that rested on the ground, as the flames dissipated against his skin. 

_Maker._

Dorian’s hands groped hurriedly at his pockets, and he cursed under his breath. He had it, he knew it was here, _it had to be_. Treveyan didn’t have enough energy to produce a barrier sufficient enough to stop the boulder from hitting him, and he might be able to run, but he’d been running so hard, for so long, he’d never be able to avoid the boulder. He’d be crushed. And they all would die.

Dorian felt the metal cube, and yanked it from his pocket, tearing the fabric in the process. _Oh well. You were never particularly fond of King’s Willow Weave. Brings out a strange undertone in your skin, makes you look sick._

Alexius’ amulet glinted in his hand against the final rays of sun that lingered in the night sky. The Fade was thin around him, but he pulled greedily from as far away as he could reach, his fingers numb with effort, his head swimming. How beautiful the scene would have been, save for the giants, he thought as his eyes blinked slowly. He heard the boulder dislodge itself from the earth, as the giant began to heave it above his head. The amulet’s gilded glow surrounded him. 

He’d tried it once before, in a much calmer setting, all by his very lonesome. Tucked away in the comfort of his quarters, he’d twisted the Fade around himself ever so carefully, and watched as the world around him slowed to a crawl. He picked a book up off the desk – _Tales of the Champion_ \- and threw it across the room full force. Once it had left the shimmering field of golden light that surrounded him, he watched as it immediately slowed to a standstill, its pages billowing in the stagnant air, all but frozen in time. As he released the spell, the book returned to its normal speed, slamming into the wall and falling to the floor. 

He’d opened his door and peeked out, just to make sure he hadn’t broken reality. Not that he expected he would, of course. This spell was nowhere near as taxing or as complicated as what he’d accomplished earlier, pulling the group through time and space. But without the proper resources – copious amounts of the Fade dangling about – Dorian could hardly imagine the strain it would cause him.

It didn’t matter. Trevelyan would not be killed. Not while Dorian was left standing.

He loosed the spell, and felt his knees buckle, as he leaned on the staff, gasping for breath. Digging deep for his strength, he heaved his head up and saw the giant, boulder raised high above its head. Trevelyan stood, his head turning back and forth between Dorian and the giant. 

“What did you do?!” Trevelyan screamed.

“ _KAFFAS! KILL THE BLIGHTED THING!_ ” Dorian shouted back, his voice hoarse with exertion. He had no idea for how much longer he’d be able to hold out. 

Trevelyan ran, as fast as his wobbling legs would carry him, behind the beast. The Spirit Blade materialized in his hand, as he slashed through the tendons in the back of the giant’s ankles, screaming with the effort. Dorian heard the rumble build in the beast’s throat, as it reacted, impossibly slowly, to the pain. Trevelyan drove his blade once more into the giant’s other heel, as the gilded light of the spell pulled away, snapping back into the amulet, as time returned to a steady flow, or rather, they ceased speeding along its stream. 

The boulder fell flat to the ground, as the giant toppled over, unable to stand without its severed tendons, its cuts seeping deep, wine-colored blood on the ground. It roared in pain, on its knees, as it swiped back towards its ankles, but Trevelyan had already gone. 

“Sera!” He cried. “In the eye!” 

“Hey you! _SHITEBOX!_ ” She screamed, suddenly by Dorian’s side, as the giant turned toward the sound. She had the perfect angle, and Dorian head the string _thwip_ as the arrow loosed itself, speeding across the field and into its enormous, singular eye. 

Another roar ripped from its throat, as it swiped at its face, pawing at the arrow shaft, breaking it off clumsily as it tried to stop the pain.

“Best place to shoot, yeah?” She chuckled at Dorian’s side. Dorian mustered a quiet chuckle at her innuendo. _Maker, if she only knew._

Dorian tried to pull the Fade closer, but he had absolutely nothing left in him to give, and the giant was far from dead. He eased himself to the ground, completely defeated. He hoped he’s given enough. 

“Over here!” Trevelyan screamed. Dorian opened his eyes, and saw Trevelyan, standing just outside the giant’s grasp, stepping backward slowly toward the edge of a steep cliff. 

_Ass!_

Trevelyan continued to goad the giant, as it crawled toward him, slowly but surely, pulling its way across the green earth, leaving sad, bloody trails behind it as it moaned violently in pain. 

Dorian tried desperately to scream out to Trevelyan, to sway him from his course. Everything about this plan could go so wrong, so quickly. One misstep and he’d be the one sliding down the side of the cliff, and then, who would lead the Inquisition? Who would close the rifts? Who would be left for Dorian to love?

The sound never made it past his throat, dry and cracked, unable to generate even the faintest of squeaks. 

The giant meandered forward, and Trevelyan narrowly avoided the swipe of its fingers. Nothing but the open air remained behind Trevelyan, and the next swipe of the overlarge hands would certainly catch him and snap him in two.

“You ass!” Dorian finally managed to sputter out, just as the giant’s arm twisted forward. Trevelyan vanished, wrapped in his Fade Cloak, as the giant’s arm passed through him, slipping through the air and pushing it forward, over the edge of the cliff. It teetered precariously on the edge, leaning forward, but still not far enough to be tossed over the edge. 

Trevelyan appeared behind the beast, and blasted a fireball into its backside. The beast lurched, but it had gotten a handle on the edge of the cliff, and was able to stay situated.

“ _Fuck it all!_ ” 

Trevelyan slammed his staff into the ground, and Dorian watched as the earth cracked around the giant, ripping through the layers of dirt and rock underneath it, shattering the precipice on which it stood, as it grasped desperately at the unsteady ground beneath it. It slid forward in slow motion as it fell, down, into the abyss, the sounds of the rocks crunching underneath it drowning out the moans and roars as they carried it down the side of the cliff to its death. 

Silence fell over the scene, the sound of the winds winding through the trees and the grass and the clots of blood and the tattered robes, punctuated only by their heavy breathing. Dorian’s eyes hadn’t managed to unblur themselves, but he swore he could make out Solas, stumbling over to Bull, whispering enchantments as the Fade slowly crept back into the battlefield, sealing the wounds on the back of Bull’s head. 

“He’s alive,” Solas called out to Trevelyan, who had moved to join Solas by Bull’s side, and helped by weaving his own magic into Solas’ in an attempt to patch up the broken Qunari. Dorian would have stood, if he’d been able to manage. Sera sat at his side.

“Was that time magic?” She trilled. “I told you, none of that ‘round me, thank you very much.” 

Dorian wished he’d had the strength to summon a horde of horror spirits to chase her off the cliff after the giant. 

“I don’t… have the energy… to argue with you.” 

“S’pose you wouldn’t, you tit. You Tevinters never learn your lessons, do you?” 

“S’pose not,” Dorian coughed mockingly. The sun was nearly gone. Cassandra had managed to rise to her feet, and began to meander over toward them. Bull was stirring underneath Trevelyan and Solas’ hands, which worked across his body and pushed wave after wave of healing energy through him. 

“Inquisitor!” A voice shouted from behind Dorian. _Shit._ He sure as hell couldn’t turn around in this state, but he managed to tug a weak barrier around himself, sturdy enough to deflect an arrow, maybe two, but certainly nothing any heavier than that. The effort made him reel, and he doubled over.

“Careful, there, it’s just some scouts,” Sera grabbed at his shoulder in an attempt to keep him upright. Dorian groaned lowly, and tipped over, falling onto his thigh, into the dirt beneath him. He looked to his right, and saw the hollowed-out skull of a giant, dead and nigh unrecognizable but for its size. He’d planted a Walking Bomb in the back of its head, and it had worked its way out through the front, rather unceremoniously, he might add.

“Alright, then,” he gurgled. He saw the shadow of the scout pass by him – tall and horned, one of few Tal-Vashoth that ranked among Leliana’s recruits – as she jogged to the Inquisitor’s side. 

“Think you can help heave him up?” Trevelyan asked. She shrugged her shoulders, and began to pull at the Qunari, who’d managed to turn himself onto his side.

“I’m fine,” he choked, hacking violently. “Not the first time someone’s knocked me unconscious.”

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Trevelyan ignored Bull’s protests. “Solas will continue to heal him, but he’ll need a lot of help getting back.”

The other scouts began to materialize from the forest, and one of the sturdier human males decided he was man enough to let the Bull ride him all the way back to camp, which was, all things considered, still quite far from where they were. 

Dorian tried again to pick himself up, and then remembered he was just as much an ass as Trevelyan, at the very least, and surrendered to his own weakness. 

“Dorian?” Trevelyan had appeared beside him. “Are you alright?” He felt Trevelyan’s hands pulling the Fade toward him, and appreciated the calm that enveloped him. His mouth opened wide in a long sigh, his breath finally steadying, his eyes regaining their focus. He tried his legs once more, and while they’d begun to steady, he wasn’t quite able to make it to his knees. Surely, the motion looked something akin to a dying fish flopping on a dock. 

“Hey, hey!” Trevelyan muttered, “Stop that.” He leaned over, and his arms enveloped Dorian. _He better not._

Dorian felt himself lift into the air. 

“Put… me… down.” 

“ _Maker_ , Dorian, I’m going to in just a moment. Are you ready?”

“I was ready the moment you picked me up.”

Trevelyan growled quietly, and Dorian felt his legs dip down, as Trevelyan attempted to right him. Dorian managed, for the most part, to keep his knees locked beneath him, but the moment he attempted to flex them underneath himself, he began to tremble violently. Trevelyan practically dove to his side and lifted his arm over his shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he promised.

“Could you at least let me maintain some semblance of pride?” Dorian retorted, slightly frustrated, even though he very well knew he had no right to be.

“I think you have plenty to be proud of. You saved us.” 

“Just so I can plant a dagger in your back at a later date, rest assured,” he cursed. 

“Too late for that.” Sera chuckled, hobbling past them back in the direction of the campsite. _Innuendo, in the face of near certain death. Yes, definitely mad, that one._

Trevelyan took a tentative step forward, and Dorian managed to convince the wet noodles underneath him to do the same. 

“Was that time magic, Dorian?” Cassandra asked, her tone stern and severe.

“Yes,” he grunted, following Trevelyan’s stride. “But not the same as what was used in Redcliffe. Without the Breach, it can only do so much.”

She frowned. “What if it were to find its way into the wrong hands?” 

“No one would even know how to use it, and if they tried, they’d be blown sky high by the layers and layers of wards I’ve placed upon the bloody amulet. You’d have an easier time breaking into the Archon’s privy.”

“Could we maybe save this line of questioning for the morning, when we’ve all had some rest?” Trevelyan asked, as pleasantly and plaintively as possible, as to not arouse Cassandra’s ire.

“Of course, Inquisitor,” she demurred, trekking ahead of them with her sword drawn, the bloodstone blade fiery in the gilded rays of dusk.

“I thought it was incredible,” Trevelyan whispered. “But then again, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Because I’m wholly unsurprising?” Dorian muttered, struggling to place one foot in front of the other. 

“I would have said, 'consistently incredible.'”

“That, I am,” Dorian murmured.

They’d come to the stream, and Trevelyan made to pick Dorian up to carry him across the water. Dorian tried to protest, but up he went, heaved off in Trevelyan’s arms. 

“You’re having enough trouble on solid ground. You can get your revenge later, I promise.” 

“Count on it,” Dorian grumbled, eliciting a quiet chuckle from Trevelyan. Sure enough, once they’d crossed the stream, Trevelyan carefully settled Dorian back on his feet. While Dorian would have loved to remind Trevelyan that he’d stripped him of what little dignity he might have had in the eyes of the other members of the Inquisition, the persistent sensation that he was about to keel over won out. Trevelyan once again wrapped Dorian’s arm over his shoulder, and his hand around Dorian’s waist.

“Come on, you vengeful little orchid.”

“I will kill you, you know. And then I’ll return to Tevinter, and kill Maevaris for stringing those words together in a sentence and sending them to you.”

“Not before you’ve had a proper night’s rest.” 

They trudged onward through the quiet of the forest, their footfalls swift but labored, the sound of insects humming in the trees and a chilly breeze stirring the leaves above them into a veritable symphony. He wondered how it looked in the late spring, when the fireflies emerged to dance through the forest.

_Getting sentimental over Southern scenery? You_ must _be exhausted._

Thankfully, their journey to camp was completely uneventful. When they’d arrived, they were greeted by a slightly panicked Scout Harding. 

“Inquisitor!” She approached, as quickly as her short legs would carry her. “When you hadn’t returned, we sent out a patrol to confirm your location. I’m glad to see you’re all still in one piece.” She gazed past him, to the two scouts that had managed to heave Bull all the way back to camp. They looked as though they’d been the ones fighting the giants.

“I think they deserve a bit of rest, don’t you?” Trevelyan joked.

“I’ll be sure they get a good night’s sleep.” She moved to greet the pair. Dorian could have sworn he heard her mumbling underneath her breath, “Glad I didn’t have to carry him back.” He chuckled at the thought.

“Alright, then. To bed with you.” 

Trevelyan dragged Dorian into the tent, and placed him gently upon the bedroll.

“I’ll go fetch you some water.” 

The tent flap opened, and Trevelyan vanished behind it. For a moment, Dorian lay completely still, calm and quiet and savoring the lack of movement. He finally seemed able to collect his senses, the world having stopped spinning. His eyes focused in the darkness of the tent. The bedroll was surprisingly comfortable. Or maybe he was so weary, anything short of standing up would have felt pleasant. 

The fluttering of the tent flap roused him slightly, and Trevelyan leaned by his side, a large cup of water in his hand. Dorian heaved himself up – no small effort at this moment, considering his fatigue – and took the cup from Trevelyan with a grunt of appreciation. As he drank, Trevelyan busied himself with removing his and Dorian’s vestments.

“Bull’s alive, but he ought to take it easy the next few days. Harding’s having her people patch him up as we speak. In all honesty, I think he’s happy to have a few more battle scars. Solas, Sera, and Cassandra are all okay. No broken bones, luckily, but plenty of bruising. Thankfully, I believe the rifts that have arisen here have all been dealt with, and we should be able to rest tomorrow before returning to Skyhold.”

“Small favors,” Dorian sputtered in between sips. Trevelyan tugged his pants off.

“I’ll take them where I can get them.”

“Hm,” Dorian muttered. “You know, we’d probably get a far better rest if we had actual beds to sleep in.”

“Too bad we’re in the middle of the woods.”

“Not entirely. There was that lovely Orlesian Chateau not too far from here… D’Onterre, was it?”

“ _No fucking way_ ,” Trevelyan spat. Dorian couldn’t help but laugh at Trevelyan’s reaction. The Inquisitor was practically paralyzed, sweeping through the mansion, when he’d opened a door haphazardly and practically walked straight into a shambling corpse. Dorian had never seen Trevelyan react quite so hastily – the body flew halfway across the hall, incinerated into naught but ash before it had even hit the ground. 

“Who knew you were so skittish?” Dorian laughed.

“That whole house was wrong. I’m having Harding’s agents scour it for anything useful, and then burning it to the ground.”

“Cleansing by fire. How apropos, for Andraste’s Herald.”

“Herald or not, it’s coming down.”

Dorian had seen Trevelyan’s reaction, when he’d realized what had actually occurred there, in the home, to the poor child that had become possessed. His own mother would have more than happily resigned him to a similar fate, had she gotten her way, way back when. Whatever one might say about the Imperium, at least its denizens had better sense than suppressing magic in the sake of maintaining control. Control comes through instruction, study, and practice. The girl’s parents were looking for a way to stem the tide, but failed to realize that magic always finds a way to sneak through even the sturdiest of dams. 

When they’d finally unraveled the mystery, and felled the Arcane Horror, Trevelyan had stood in the small reflecting pool, overgrown and dingy, watching the demon twist in agony before him as it was torn back through the Veil.

All that remained was an enchanted amulet – enchanted by whom or what, exactly, was a question that nagged at Dorian’s mind – and a ring, bearing the family crest. 

Trevelyan had gathered them up, and tucked them away in his pocket. He’d sighed heavily, and turned to leave.

She deserved so much better than this, he’d whispered, just within earshot of Dorian. Dorian couldn’t help but agree. 

“Regardless, I can’t say I’m not eager to return to your bed in Skyhold.”

“Don’t you mean _our_ bed? You’re in it as much as I am.”

Dorian looked up at Trevelyan, who stared at him as though Dorian had missed this most natural of conclusions.

“Your room, your bed.”

“Ugh,” Trevelyan moaned, before Fade Cloaking his clothes off himself, and chucking them across the tent. He tucked himself into the bedroll, and pressed himself up against Dorian’s body, wrapping his arm over Dorian’s waist. “So close, and yet so far away.”

Dorian wasn’t quite sure what gave him pause – he was enamored with Trevelyan, having settled comfortably into their romance, but even next to Trevelyan, he couldn’t help but feel as though it would all be snatched away from him. Such a fatalistic reaction was likely the result of his many failed attempts at courtship within the borders of the Imperium, but old habits die hard, and this one had helped him survive time and time again. 

He was still afraid that this would all come crashing down around him, that the moment he was sure that they’d built something sturdy enough to lean on, he’d find out that it had vanished, its permanence replaced by the sinking, crushing feeling of emptiness and loneliness he’d felt time and time before. Keeping one foot on the ground gave him something to fall back on, when he inevitably was forced back down from the clouds. 

Trevelyan’s lips grazed along Dorian’s neck, like a feather floating along his skin. “I don’t mean to push you.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m not trying to force you to admit your undying love and devotion,” Trevelyan breathed, his voice caressing Dorian’s ears, his breath slow and steady on the back of Dorian’s neck. “I… just… Hm.”

“Can’t seem to find the words?”

“I want you to be comfortable with the idea that we are intertwined. That what’s mine is yours – within reason, of course.”

“Like that time I borrowed your underthings?”

“I’d assumed you were just taking a trophy, considering I haven’t gotten them back.”

“If I wanted a trophy, I’d have your head mounted.”

Trevelyan chuckled lightly. “Which one?”

They both devolved into laughter. Dorian turned over, and kissed Trevelyan.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” Trevelyan started in. “Time magic, without the Breach? Amazing.”

“I am, aren’t I?”

“Did you end up burning all your notes?”

“Every last one,” Dorian had stopped laughing. It had been difficult, watching all of his hard work turn to ash before his eyes, but what he’d managed to unlock, the secrets of space and time, were mysteries that ought to stay mysteries, as far as he were concerned. 

“I’m sorry. I know how hard you worked.”

“Yes. Tragic, really, how none will remember me for my genius. Meanwhile, you’ll coast into the history books, a scion of the Maker’s light, emanating throughout the ages, all because of an Anchor that you don’t even understand,” Dorian scoffed, feigning offense. 

“The irony is not lost upon me.”

“I’m glad you’ve managed to remain so grounded, in spite of all your lofty titles. Herald. Inquisitor. Wielder of an enormous dick.”

Trevelyan smiled, and Dorian sighed, pressing his face into Trevelyan’s chest. He kissed Trevelyan over his heart, before pulling his head back up.

“If it brings you any comfort, I know how great you are.”

“Cold comfort, but thank you.”

“I love you, Dorian.”

“I love you, too.”

The words just came gurgling up, an unintentional response to an unforeseen prompt. Trevelyan smiled. Dorian felt a slight wave of panic rise up, but Trevelyan leaned forward and kissed him, his lips moving slowly against Dorian’s, as he savored the sensation. 

Dorian’s mind raced in a thousand different directions all at once, wheels spinning endlessly toward unknowable ends. _What is this? What does it mean? Will everything change? Will it all disappear?_ But suddenly, they all ground to a violent halt, stopping, as Dorian allowed himself to join Trevelyan, and enjoy the moment for everything it was worth. 

“See? Not so hard,” Trevelyan whispered.

It hadn’t been. In fact, it had been all too easy. 

Maybe that was it. It was easy. It was right.

“Don’t ruin the moment,” Dorian countered, before wrapping himself up in Trevelyan, his mind at peace, his fatigue dispelled, as he found himself underneath Trevelyan once more, his legs spread apart, his mouth eagerly searching the darkness of the tent to find Trevelyan’s, quiet moans spilling from their lips, as Trevelyan eased into Dorian, thrusting slowly and tenderly until both were spent.

Trevelyan tucked himself next to Dorian, who assumed his place in the nook, and both soon fell asleep.

Dorian didn’t dream that evening. He had no need.

___

 

“The smuggler’s letters you’d managed to acquire from the Emerald Graves have proved extremely useful. We now know that the center of Corypheus’ red lyrium mining operations is located within Emprise du Lion.”

“That Orlesian town that’s been frozen over? Is there a reason none of the Inquisition’s missions involve a tropical clime? Can’t we establish a branch in Rivain?” Dorian muttered lazily, as he considered his next move. 

“It’s always warmest near the fire,” Cullen replied. They were in his office, on the battlements of Skyhold, whose roof had only recently been patched, the snow and cold making it otherwise uninhabitable. Cullen protested, of course – _the resources could be used for something more valuable_ – but luckily, Trevelyan was sensible enough to know that an investment in keeping the cold out and keeping Cullen warm and healthy was ultimately an investment in the success of his army.

_I’ll not have you catching your death, shivering in your office while you coordinate military strategies. They’re starting work tomorrow._

Cullen had ultimately acquiesced, but then again, he knew better than to put up a fight when Trevelyan had gotten an idea stuck in his head.

“Are you going to wait for the next Age to make your move?” Cullen asked. Dorian huffed quietly, and slid a piece across the board arbitrarily. Cullen was several moves from destroying Dorian. Normally, at this point, Dorian would begin his fruitless attempts to distract the Commander with profanity and innuendo, but he was hardly in the mood. “You aren’t in proper form today, Dorian.”

“Winter doldrums, is all,” he yawned in response. It was true. What little they did see of the sun, poking through the clouds that hung only feet above Skyhold, did little for his constitution, not to mention his complexion. He hadn’t been this pale in years. 

Luckily, short days meant long nights, which gave him the perfect excuse to spend more time in bed, reading whatever book he might have brought from the library, sleeping, or preferably, doing unspeakable things to Trevelyan. Trevelyan had been particularly restless the night before, and resolved himself to pleasuring Dorian. Dorian was in the middle of a particularly engrossing chapter of _Stone Halls of the Dwarves_ , when Trevelyan had planted his face in between Dorian’s thighs and gotten to work sucking Dorian’s cock, as Dorian continued reading. Of course, he’d been polite enough to stop once he’d finished the chapter, mostly because he was about to finish in Trevelyan’s mouth. Trevelyan had not neglected himself, and Dorian offered him a hand in bringing himself to orgasm, watching as Trevelyan shot his load across both their bodies, before melting under the covers and falling asleep.

_And you didn’t bathe this morning. Filthy._

“Can’t say I’m enjoy the weather myself. It’s been a particularly biting winter, though not as terrible as the last. “

“Of course. The one time I decide to venture south, and the weather is exceptionally unpleasant. Just my luck.”

“It hasn’t been all that bad, I would imagine,” Cullen smiled kindly at him. 

“Oh, get off it, Commander, I’m not about to invite you for a threesome without Trevelyan’s explicit permission.”

_That should knock him off his feet for a moment. Maybe I can switch the place of his knight and his empress while he collects himself._

“That’s… hardly what… I would…”

“But I’ll be sure to let him know you expressed interest.” 

“Dorian!” Cullen started, before gathering himself. “Fine. Go right on ahead.”

Cullen sat there, a slight smirk on his lips. _Kaffas. He’s caught on to your tricks._

“Don’t think I won’t,” Dorian threatened. Cullen switched his pieces back into their proper positions, and took another one of Dorian’s off the board. 

“Oh, I’m certain you will,” Cullen replied. He always got smart when he was about to win, but not a moment before. “Check.”

_Kaffas._

“You do know, one day I will beat you.” 

“Would that be before or after the _ménage a trois?_ ”

Dorian rolled his eyes, and magicked a piece across the board. He hardly even cared about the game at this point. He’d learned to accept this loss. The perk of the Commander’s friendship was far more valuable than Dorian’s foolish pride. 

“Preferably before. I’m a far better top when I can maintain a subtle sense of superiority.”

Cullen laughed, and his empress took another of Dorian’s pieces from him.

“Checkmate.”

___

 

After their little game, which had become less about honing their strategic minds and more about taking what little reprieve they could find from their duties, they’d both been feeling a bit peckish, and had decided to make their way to the kitchens to see if there may be an extra loaf or some cheese, that they might fill their stomachs enough to make it to dinner. Of course, as they made their way across the Main Hall, Trevelyan caught the pair of them. 

“Come on, you have to see this.”

“What is it we’re going to see, exactly?” Dorian asked.

“The results of Dagna’s experiment with the crystal we recovered in Val Royeaux.”

“Maker, another one of Dagna’s experiments?” Cullen asked. “Are you sure we won’t be blow off the face of the mountain?”

“Sure enough. Come on. Leliana and Varric are already down there.”

Cullen sighed, and shook his head. He looked to Dorian.

“After you, Commander.” 

They proceeded to follow Trevelyan down the staircase to the Undercroft, where Varric and Leliana had gathered around a small table. It was strangely warm, but then again, it was a forge – molten metal ought to help heat the place up a bit. 

“… the Shaperate in Orzammar had something like this.” Dagna’s voice rose above the sounds of the water and wind in the Undercroft, echoing off its stony walls. Harritt was tucked away in a corner, intent on polishing the sword he’d been working on, staying far away from the dwarven interloper. 

“They preserve voices, or a likeness. Memories, you know?” she continued. “You don’t know. Doesn’t matter. The Venatori cracked it, but here…” 

She turned to tinker with the crystal. Leliana turned to Trevelyan. “The documents you found, Inquisitor, I’ve made interesting…”

Suddenly, the crystal emitted a whine, and glowed violently, shaking within its steel cage, as a glowing figure appeared out of thin air, towering above the entire group, his figure dark and twisted, unnaturally thin, inhuman. It had been nearly a year, since they’d seen him last, but he’d been etched into their memories. 

“… discoveries.” Leliana finished her sentence, her voice but a whisper. The entire group had frozen in fear. Corypheus, in Skyhold, not in the flesh of course, but far too close to home. Dorian saw, out of the corner of his eye, Trevelyan leaning into the apparition, ready to make it pay for what it had wrought upon all those who’d died in Haven.

Dorian felt a slight chill, as another apparition passed through him. Female, her hair parted severely down the middle, braided and twisted into taut, controlled buns at the back of her head. _Calpernia._

Another figure drifted forward, joining Corypheus at his side, coated in armor, his scraggly hair slicked down, spiraling off into corkscrews from the back of his head, his mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a smile, revealing his ragged teeth. _Samson._

“Have no fear of demons,” Corypheus spoke, his voice deep and dark, but distant and otherworldly, twisted no doubt by the abomination that he’d become, and filtered through the crystal that echoed his words.

“But the power will draw them. Unless you have wards against possession?” Calpernia protested. There was an uncertainty in her voice, but it was not aimed at her own conclusions; of those, she was certain.

“Don’t worry. If you get yourself possessed, I’ll just lop your pretty head off.” Samson chuckled throatily at the gruesome image. _No love lost between these two._

“Once you have become the vessel, demons will be beneath your concern,” Corypheus continued, ignoring Samson’s interjection. “Prepare as I have directed.”

“I shall, Elder One.” A look glazed across her face, but for the briefest of moments, as she bowed before Corypheus. 

The crystal made another noise, and the ethereal figures dissipated like fog on the wind, vanishing into the cold beyond the Undercroft. 

“Sod it!” Dagna cursed. “Um – sorry, the crystal couldn’t take any more. Wasn’t meant for this.”

“So that’s what Corypheus looks like up close,” Dorian said. His appetite had vanished, suddenly replaced with nausea. 

“Not exactly,” Dagna corrected him. “It was a just a memory, stored in the crystal.”

“That was vital information! Did you see Calpernia’s expression?” Leliana asked, looking at Trevelyan, who stared back at her. He’d been focused solely on Corypheus, and reasonably so. The man – or thing, Dorian wasn’t quite sure – had taken so much from him. Dorian hummed an acknowledgement to Leliana, which she took as a cue to continue. “Their alliance may be less than harmonious.”

“Doesn’t seem like she and Samson are too fond of each other, either,” Varric added.

“Corypheus said Calpernia was going to be a vessel. A vessel for what?” Trevelyan asked. 

“They spoke of power and demons. But Calpernia is already a magister.”

“ _A mage, not a magister_ ,” Dorian interjected, furious that after all this time, the distinction still seemed to evade these southerners. “She is a powerful mage, but she has no seat in the Imperium’s Senate, therefore, _not_ a magister. But do continue.”

Leliana looked at Dorian with the most quizzical of expressions, as though she wanted to ask if his pedantry was absolutely necessary at this very moment, but she turned to Trevelyan instead. “Corypheus must have some other plan.”

He mulled over this, and looked back to Dagna. “Again?” 

“Well… I’m no Shaper, but I might be able to get it to remember new sounds.”

“Really?” Leliana practically jumped. Or, as close to jumping as someone like her would ever allow anyone to see. “If we hid it among Calpernia’s belongings, imagine what we could learn.”

The very last thing that Dagna needed was someone egging her on, but Leliana had given her inspiration, which would likely lead to their destruction when Dagna blew the roof off the fortress. “Aha! I can split it and keep half here! We could hear her speaking right then!”

Dorian arched a brow. _Split a priceless artifact on the off chance that it will serve a more valuable purpose, but with an extremely high probability of destroying it in the process?_ It was hardly a novel idea. How many fools have destroyed relics of ages past in pursuit of knowledge, or power? 

“It’s not how they’re supposed to work, and it’ll probably break. As I said, I’m no Shaper.”

_Say something, Pavus._

“I’m no expert on dwarven memory crystals,” Dorian said, “but let’s consider our options, for just a moment. We have a crystal, replete with information on Calpernia, who is to become this, ‘vessel.’ We cannot seem to activate the crystal by anything other than chance, nor can we isolate specific memories it has captured. There may be a trove of valuable information contained within the crystal that could very well be destroyed if we try breaking it apart, on the off chance that we could use it as some sort of… instantaneous communication device.”

“So you think it’s a bad idea, then?” Trevelyan asked, turning back to look at Dorian.

“I’m not saying it’s a bad idea, _per se_. If the experiment were to work, of course, that would likely be far more valuable than any information gleaned from the crystal in its present state, if only because the information we’d be receiving would be up-to-date. But there is the chance that we lose everything, should Dagna’s ideas prove incorrect.”

“That’s true,” she admitted, “but just think about what we’d have if it works!”

“Hmmm.” Moved by the dwarf’s excitement, of course, Trevelyan was considering her plans. While Dorian had never encountered anything of the like, it was quite possible that these crystals were relics of a time before the Imperium stretched across Thedas, and were nothing more than common household items to the denizens of Arlathan, allowing the citizens of Elvhenan instantaneous access to those thousands of miles away.

Dorian couldn’t pretend that the idea of such progress wasn’t enticing, but not at the cost of destroying what value remained in the bauble. 

“Inquisitor,” Leliana interjected. “Calpernia’s Venatori have been digging up elven ruins. Tracking them might lead us to her. If this crystal were placed in her lair, I cannot understate the value of what we might learn.”

“That’s a whole lot of ‘might’ to be relying on, don’t you think, Nightingale?” Varric chuckled.

“Well, then, it seems only fitting to turn Calpernia’s tools against her,” Trevelyan had decided. _Oh well. Bid a fond farewell to whatever information might have been housed inside that crystal._

“Right!” Dagna said, her excitement palpable.

“If there’s a rift growing between Corypheus and Calpernia, we must exploit it.”

Leliana made a solid point; that Dorian could not deny. Driving a wedge between Calpernia and Corypheus would provide untold benefits – and might very well stop the girl from assuming her role as the ‘vessel,’ whatever exactly that would entail. Dorian’s mind wandered – a vessel could hold a great many things, but Corypheus was only interested in power. If she were to become a vessel for a source of power, why would Corypheus not become the vessel himself? 

There was much to ponder, invariably.

“I’ll have the crystal ready soon. I think.” _Kaffas._ “Let me find the quicksilver…”

And with that, Dagna was off, fluttering about the Undercroft, grabbing tomes and tools. Harritt stared on, from his vantage point, shaking his head slowly, arms across his chest. 

The group filed out of the Undercroft quickly enough, eager to leave Dagna to her task, and to escape the potential blast radius.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Trevelyan asked, turning to catch Dorian as the rest of the group made to return to their usual positions around Skyhold – Leliana, upstairs in her Rookery, Varric, amongst a stack of papers by the fireplace, and Cullen in his office, overseeing the training and development of the Inquisition’s forces.

Dorian nodded a polite farewell to Cullen, before turning back to Gabriel. “Only the usual. Slipping into the wine cellar, finding something interesting to read. What else is there to do? Sit outside and watch snow gather on the mountaintops?”

“I suppose we’ll need to make a trip to Val Royeaux soon. Remind you that civilization exists outside of the Frostbacks.”

“Yes, I should think that would do it. And no secret visits to shady merchants this time around, understood?”

A frown crossed Trevelyan’s face, and he stepped forward to wrap his arms around Dorian’s waist. “I’ll never make that mistake again, I promise.”

“Just making sure,” Dorian whispered, as Trevelyan leaned in for a chaste kiss. 

“I’ve been meaning to check on Cole – it’s been several days since I’ve last seen him, which is a little disconcerting.”

“What’s disconcerting is him appearing out of nowhere next to you.”

“Honestly, I think I’ve acclimated to it, which is why his absence is so noticeable. Either way, I’m off to find him. I’ll probably be roped into a million different projects and plans the minute I step out the door.”

“Naturally, Lord Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan slapped him gently on the ass. “I’ll see you at dinner, love.”

“Until then, _Amatus._ ”

Trevelyan wandered off toward the large door at the front of the Main Hall, and Dorian stood, watching him off, as a stupid grin crossed his face. 

“Dorian?”

Dorian turned to see Duo, holding a folded piece of parchment in his hand.

“Ah, Duo. How are you?”

“Well enough, considering how dreadful the weather has been, as of late.” 

“Certainly not as pleasant as the weather back home.”

“Yes, but there are other conditions which make the south much more amenable to one such as myself.”

Dorian nearly choked. “Yes, well, I suppose I should have chosen my words my carefully.”

“You had no ill intent.” He paused for a moment, looking off to the side, before returning his eyes to Dorian. The _liberati_ stared at him intently. “I’ve heard, through the grapevine, that you want to reform Tevinter. Root out the corruption.”

Dorian nodded politely. “It’s true.” He didn’t like the direction in which this conversation was heading, but there was absolutely no way to head it off. 

“Tell me: what is it that you would change?”

“Well,” Dorian gulped. “The Magisterium is a broken system, full of those who are too afraid to stand against the majority in denouncing blood magic. The magical abuses have gone on long enough; it’s time that they were brought to an end. And slavery… well, it needs to be abolished, of course, but it’s become such an integral part of the Tevinter economy. I suppose it would take years to truly dismantle the institution.”

“Hmm,” the man pandered Dorian’s words. “I see your point. But can I ask you a question?”

Dorian had been hoping he wouldn’t. “Of course you may.”

“Do you believe that the people who have never tasted freedom should be kept waiting, while those who have never known what its like to be bound debate whether or not emancipation will allow them to remain seated in their comfy chairs, sipping their expensive wine?”

Dorian felt nauseous. Duo’s question wasn’t stated in a tone designed to belittle Dorian, or to make him feel ten times smaller than he was – his own self-consciousness was doing a fine enough job of that on its own – but to challenge Dorian’s perceptions, like a professor in one of the many Circles he had attended would have posed such an inquiry. Although, all of them owned slaves, and likely would never have bothered to ask. 

“I suppose you are right.”

“You shouldn’t suppose. Supposition will not change the Imperium; conviction will.”

Dorian sighed. “You are right.”

“Better.” Duo smiled. “I have a letter here, for you.” He proffered the parchment, and Dorian noticed the wax seal, shining, black as a cave without any light.

He could just barely make out the patterns carved into the wax, and immediately felt the bile rise in his throat once he recognized the letter’s source.

_Father._

“Thank you very much, Duo.” He grabbed the letter hastily, and bowed his head. 

“No. Thank you, Dorian, for being so candid in your response.”

Dorian bowed his head respectfully – a motion he found quite strange: an _Altus_ , bowing to a _liberati_ – and turned to head to the wine cellars. It had been that sort of day.

___

 

Dorian had managed to pluck quite a desirable bottle out of the corner of the cellars – flavored with a hint of peach, like a kiss on the lips from summer herself – as he turned to lock the door. Today had not been particularly easy, or pleasant. He half-considered hiding himself away in Trevelyan’s tower for the remainder of the afternoon, in hopes that he could avoid any further interactions.

He crossed the large room in basement, heading back toward the stairwell that lead to the Main Hall, praying to the Maker that Josephine’s door would be closed, and she wouldn’t notice the bottle curled underneath his arm, when he heard a sound – a quiet hum, lilting across the basement. Dorian turned his head, and realized that the door to the small, cobweb-ridden library was opened. A woman’s voice – humming quietly, a simple song – emanated from the small room.

Dorian turned, and began walking slowly over toward the door, which was lit in the eerie green of Veilfire. He stepped carefully through the door, and saw the woman leaning against the desk, paging haphazardly through the tome that she’d plucked from the shelves. Her outfit was completely inappropriate, least of all considering how cold it was outside the walls of the castle, the burgundy red… scarf, for as much material as it was made of, barely covered her chest, and her leather skirt looked as though it were made of strips of all the wildlife in southern Thedas. 

Dorian cleared his throat to announce his presence. “You ought to be careful with the books down here, Morrigan. They are exceptionally old, and in spite of their preservation, are likely to crumble into dust if handled without the proper care and caution.”

She didn’t turn her head up to him, instead choosing to continue with the words in front of her. “Do you think me so ill-trained as to handle these tomes with anything less than the utmost care and caution?” She turned her golden eyes up to him, and smirked lightly. 

“Frankly, no southern mage is above suspicion. I’ve seen evidence of the education that’s been given to these mages in their so-called ‘Circles’ and it leaves much to be desired. That is, of course, to say nothing of the apostates who’ve likely never handled such precious, invaluable materials.”

The line came out pointed, and Dorian meant it as such. Those who had accused him of being eager to worm his way into a position of power had all but ignored Dorian the moment Morrigan stepped through the walls of the fortress. Celene’s former Arcane Advisor had vaulted easily into a position of power within the Inquisition as an official Orlesian liaison, an honor that wasn’t even bestowed upon Vivienne, whose entire existence was centered around the Grand Game. Not to mention the whispers of her involvement with the Hero of Ferelden, who’d all but vanished years prior. 

Furthermore, Morrigan had received the dreaded stamp of disapproval from Leliana, whom Dorian had grown to respect and trust over their time within Skyhold. Sister Nightingale believed that, above all else, Morrigan’s interests began and ended with herself, and the power she could acquire through her associations. Perhaps that was why Vivienne detested Morrigan so, because she saw her as a competitor, even though she'd never admit it. Vivienne had to learn the Game, but Morrigan had always known how to play it.

Morrigan laughed, a quiet little sing-song. She had quite a lovely voice, but then again, so did Desire Demons when they were busy trying to cut bargains with mages from across the Veil. “I can assure you that I will treat these volumes with all the care they require. I have a particular interest in preserving that which has persevered across the ages. Such knowledge should be treasured. I believe the Inquisitor was satisfied that I would take proper caution. ‘Twas him who informed me that this place existed.”

Dorian stared blankly at her. “I assume that was an attempt to get underneath my skin?” Her visage gave no hint of whether or not such assumption was correct, so Dorian proceeded. “Trevelyan sees the best in all of us, probably because he is the best of all of us. Do not think you can leverage our relationship against me in any way.”

“I never intimated that I could, Pavus,” she drawled, her voice subtle and toxic, an elegant poison. “Perhaps your own insecurities are goading your eyes into seeing that which does not exist?”

“Hardly, my dear. Just reminding you that you are here by his graces, and I refuse to allow you to take advantage of them.”

“Ah, I see now,” she started in. “Tis friendly advice, from one alleged opportunist to another?” 

They stood in silence, not feet away from each other, neither quite willing to submit, even though the pair of them ought to find more solace in each other’s company than they were willing to recognize at present. 

_I’d find plenty of solace in her company if she didn’t skulk about like she owned the place._

“Mother?” A small voice called out from behind Dorian, who turned to look at its source. When Morrigan had arrived at Skyhold, many among the throngs were surprised to find that she had a son – even Vivienne herself. It appeared as though she’d taken great pains to minimize her public connection to the child, all for his benefit, that he might not be tainted by his relationship to her.

Dorian had thought it particularly noble at the time, but currently had no sympathy for parental bonds, considering the letter than was tucked into his pocket.

“Yes, Kieran?” She called, her voice warm and maternal, a stark contrast from the cold, bilious tone that she’d been using just moments ago.

“Hello, sir,” he nodded politely at Dorian. “I found a book upstairs that I would very much like to read.” He marched past Dorian and held up the book in his hands. _Mortalitasi: For the Living, the Dead._

From Dorian’s personal collection.

“Ahem.” Dorian interrupted. “I hate to be a bother, but did you happen to find that book on the shelf behind the plush chair in the alcove?”

“Yes,” the boy offered earnestly.

“I am afraid that book is mine,” Dorian said. Kieran frowned, slightly. 

“Kieran, you ought to ask Master Pavus permission, should you like to borrow his book.”

“Master Pavus,” Kieran turned to Dorian, “would you be so kind as to allow me to borrow your book?”

Dorian looked down at him for a moment. He couldn’t have been older than nine or ten, and yet, there was something about him that seemed far, far older. Dorian felt the pull of the Fade around the boy, but it didn’t appear as though he was able to harness his magic quite yet. Soon enough, he suspected. For now, there was no harm letting him read. Maybe someone in this damned castle would pick up Necromancy, outside the three or four rebellious Circle Mages that attended Speaker Anaxas’ weekly training séances. 

“All I ask is that you handle it with care, and put it back where you found it once you’ve finished.”

“Thank you very much,” he replied, as though this had been a foregone conclusion, and the question was naught but a formality. Luckily, whatever suspicion Dorian had toward Morrigan did not extend to her son, and at the very least, he wouldn’t want word getting back to Trevelyan that he’d mistreated the boy. Trevelyan had taken quite a shine to Morrigan, and Kieran by association. It would upset him greatly to know that Dorian had refused him a book.

“I will be in the library, Mother. Thank you again, Master Pavus.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Run along, little man,” Morrigan called after him, as he giddily marched out of the room. Dorian turned and watched him, not turning back to Morrigan until he’d estimated that Kieran was almost up the stairs. 

“Thank you,” Morrigan offered, “for your kindness. It speaks well of your character, that any quarrel you might have with me does not extend to my child.”

“I remember when I was his age. It was the first time I’d ever read that particular book.” A wistful air had wrapped itself around Dorian, but he shook it off. “His magic has not yet manifested?”

“Not quite. I should think it will be soon enough. It feels as though just yesterday, he was but a babe in my arms.”

“Time tends to slip away from you, when you aren’t looking.”

She chuckled lightly. “Tis true, sadly. I’ve done everything in my power to protect him from the world. His father has done the same.”

“The Hero of Ferelden?”

“Neither I nor Kieran refer to him as such, but yes.” 

It would have been easy to dismiss Morrigan as some wild apostate snaking her way into the ranks of the Inquisition, but Dorian couldn’t help but notice all tiny little parallels that lay between them. Both were viewed as interlopers within the halls of Skyhold. Both were short on allies, even though both had saved southern Thedas from world-ending disaster; Morrigan, during her time in the Blight, and Dorian, from the perils of time magic. 

And both had found their way into the arms of men that seemed greater than legend.

“Well, then, I’ll leave you to it,” Dorian said, turning to walk out the door. “Good day, Morrigan.”

“And to you, Pavus,” she purred, as Dorian slipped away, up the stairs. At the top, he caught Josephine’s eyes, which darted down to see the bottle in his hand, but he slipped through the door to the Main Hall before she could chastise him, and quickly made for the door across the way. He’d been distracted long enough; time to open the letter, and the bottle.

As he made his way up the stairs, he couldn’t help but wonder about Morrigan – an unapologetic apostate who’d managed to ally with men and women in far more prominent positions than she’d have ever been able to gain living in some forest in the blasted, tip-of-the-ass end of Thedas. He wondered what magic she might have learned, wherever it was she came from. Trevelyan had mentioned something about it, some place referred to as the “Wilds,” but Dorian hadn’t been paying attention. Trevelyan had been naked, and Morrigan had been the farthest thing from his mind. 

_Ass._

Trevelyan was completely enchanted with Morrigan. He’d caught them once, in the Gardens, in a deep discussion about magical theory, and Trevelyan hung on her every word. Vivienne had tipped Dorian off, either because she wanted to inflame his jealousy, or because she wanted him to head off Morrigan at the pass and prevent her from sinking her fangs into Trevelyan. Knowing Vivienne, it was likely a little of both, but mostly the latter. Trevelyan had only enough room for one set of fangs in his hide, and Vivienne had already claimed that space, thank you very much.

Dorian had, unfortunately, been a victim of the former, for when he saw Trevelyan fall under Morrigan’s spell, he’d snorted loudly against his better self, his nose wrinkled in disgust. In all their time together, Trevelyan had never engaged him in a conversation about the finer points of magical theory, and certainly, Dorian had received an education beyond anything any southern mage, apostate or not, had ever had the opportunity to acquire. Why wouldn’t Trevelyan come to him? Dorian would have gone easy on him, started slowly, explained the basics. 

It was an elementary proposition, really: Dorian would never be able to fulfill all of Trevelyan’s needs, but as far as he was concerned, this need in particular was one that he could amply satisfy. So then, why exactly was he even wasting his time with that witch? 

He snorted again, frustrated. _You, jealous? Look in a mirror. He’d be a fool to lose you._

He opened the door to his room, poured himself a glass of the wine, and waved the thought away as the aroma filled his nose. He marched over to his bed, and kicked off his boots, climbing up on top of the downy comforter. He lit the fireplace with a wave of his hand, and the candles by the bedside, settling his wine glass on the nightstand next to him. He pulled the letter from his pocket – a little worse for wear, but no serious damage – and tore through the wax seal, unfurling the note, prepared for the worst. 

He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply to steady his nerves, and looked down at the piece of parchment before him.

_Dorian,_

_I hope you are doing well, since we last saw one another._

_Word has reached Tevinter that the Inquisition stands against a being claiming to be an ancient Magister. Naturally, the Magisterium has denounced this as the actions of a fringe madman, leading a lunatic cult of bitter Soporati. Still, some have been impressed at the ease with which he’s managed to throw the South into utter chaos. Many more are content to sit and watch the spectacle._

_Word of your involvement with the Inquisition has also begun to spread. Apparently, the Orlesians were quite taken with you at Halamshiral._

_I sincerely hope you consider the repercussions of your actions. As I’m certain you’ll be returning to the Imperium once you have managed to root out this Corypheus, I caution you to contemplate the impact your actions will have, within the borders of the Imperium and without._

_Invite attention, but not gossip. If you truly aim to reform the Imperium, you must take care. You will not be able to make a stand upon the salacious tidbits of your personal affairs. Give them a reason to respect you._

_Yours,_

_Halward Pavus,  
Lord of Asariel_

Dorian sighed, and folded the letter back up. 

It was practically the nicest letter his Father had sent to him in years. Of course Dorian could read plenty of subtext in between the lines – _I heard about your dance with the Inquisitor and I can hardly bear the shame_ – but this was far better than what he was used to being sent: a group of hired mercenaries to bind and gag him before spiriting him back to the family estate. That particular declaration of disapproval required no subtext at all.

Dorian would, naturally, ignore much of his Father’s advice, as children are wont to do, regardless of their ages. He would dance with the Inquisitor wherever he damn well pleased. And when he returned to Tevinter, after having helped save the Imperium from its original sin, well then, he’d be standing heads above the rest of his idiot countrymen. _Tevinter supremacy?_ He’d say. _Ha! We’re but a shadow of what we once were._

And he’d go about changing things. Well, it wouldn’t be so simple, of course. He’d need to consolidate support, rally others to the cause, forge alliances. Mae was already doing so much of the heavy lifting back home, but the pair of them were craftier than most. Of course they’d be able to change things. Slowly, at first, but once they gained momentum, nothing would stop the pair of them. 

_It won’t be that easy. Trevelyan just makes it look that way. You may have his heart, but you certainly don’t have his luck._

And then it hit him. 

_Trevelyan._

_Tevinter._

_Oh no._

There was no Trevelyan in Tevinter.

But he had to return, of course. Tevinter would never save itself, and he couldn’t leave it to crumble underneath the weight of its own decadence and complacency. Surely Trevelyan would understand. Dorian had never hidden his intentions, and Trevelyan had been encouraging of his desire to reform Tevinter. Of course Trevelyan would support him. 

But he began to feel the thought claw at him. _It’s not like you can pack him in your suitcase and spirit him away to Minrathous._ Once they’d defeated Corypheus, it wasn’t as though Trevelyan would magically cease to be the Inquisitor. Even then, practically anyone of note believed him to be the Herald of Andraste. He would still have duties, responsibilities. Nobles to meet with, disputes to settle, babies to kiss. Slipping away to the north would be all but impossible for him.

Further still, Dorian wasn’t certain that he wanted Trevelyan to come along. What name would he ever make for himself, with Trevelyan by his side? Even the brightest star in the sky is completely overpowered by the midday sun. Trevelyan had faced countless uphill battles – to seal the Breach, to rebuild the Inquisition after the destruction of Haven, to win the favor of the Orlesian Court – and succeeded every time, with a flourish and a bow at the very end, as if to gently remind the world that he was chosen.

_Kaffas!_

Dorian marched over to his desk, grabbed the bottle, and drank deeply. 

He loved Trevelyan, in the truest way he’d ever known. Of course Trevelyan would let him leave, but there was a part of him that desperately wanted to stay. _Fuck Tevinter! What good has it ever done you?_

He thought back to all the sleepless nights in the Imperium, and all the mornings that he’d woken up, head pounding, hair a mess, in the bed of another lover whose name or face he hardly recognized from the evening prior. Painting himself as an idealistic reformer was an easy way to escape the truth: during his time in the Imperium, he’d done little more than despair over his circumstances, drinking and fucking in an attempt to dull the blade of disappointment that dug into his heart. He’d never quite belonged there, even in his youth, and he’d been nothing but an absolute terror, all because he recognized his own greatness, and it seemed that no one else could. 

At least, not for long enough to keep him around. He’d nearly drained Maevaris’ patience with his antics, during the time he’d spent at her estate. And then, suddenly, the Venatori gave him purpose, Alexius’ involvement made it personal, and he’d found his way to the South. 

And to Trevelyan.

He brought the bottle to his lips and took another deep pull, and drained its contents. It would hit him soon enough.

He climbed onto his bed and screamed angrily into his pillow, to muffle the noise. 

He couldn’t ask Trevelyan to come with him. He’d just be painting a target on Trevelyan’s back, and the former Venatori who managed to avoid being shunned politically for their involvement in some extremist plot would be relentless in their pursuit of the man. Not that Trevelyan didn’t already have a target painted on himself in the form of a glowing green scar across the center of his palm. 

Dorian rolled over on his back. The liquor began to hit him.

He’d deal with it all later. For now, he was exhausted. His desire to process all of his conflicting thoughts and emotions dissipated, the more inebriated he became. 

He rolled once more, back on to his stomach, tucking his arms underneath his pillow. He fell asleep quickly. 

Trevelyan and Tevinter would still be there when he woke up.

___

 

“Dorian? Dorian?” 

He picked his head up to find the source of the voice. Trevelyan, naturally, hovering over his bed, a concerned look on his face. 

“Are you all right? You didn’t finish your wine.” 

Dorian followed his finger to the full glass sitting on his nightstand.

“Shouldn’t you be concerned that I managed to down the rest of the bottle?” 

“I know you better than that,” he smiled. Dorian turned, and buried his face back in his pillow. “You missed dinner. I was concerned, is all. Would you prefer I’d leave you alone?”

Dorian huffed, rolled over, and looked out the window. Pitch black. 

“No, no. Give me a moment to collect myself. I’m assuming you’d like me to follow you back up to your chambers.”

“I’ve gotten too predictable, haven’t I?” Trevelyan sat down on the bed, and reached over to Dorian’s foot. “Your feet are frozen.” He began to rub them gently, kneading his thumbs into the bottoms of Dorian’s feet. Dorian murmured assent, and rested his head back against the pillow.

“Don’t fall asleep again,” Trevelyan warned.

“Then maybe we should take this to your chambers, so if I pass out, you won’t have to carry me to bed like a child. Not that it would be the first time this week.”

“No offense, but I don’t think I’d make it up all those stairs with you in my arms.”

Dorian rubbed his eyes as Trevelyan grabbed his boots, and helped pull them on to his feet.

“I’d nearly forgotten how much more comfortable your bed is in comparison to mine.”

“Blame Josephine. No, please forget I said that. Knowing you, you’ll march right into her office and demand this injustice be corrected immediately.”

“I’m already plotting my speech,” Dorian muttered lazily, as Trevelyan helped to pick him up. Dorian grabbed for the glass of wine on the nightstand – good wine should not go to waste – and took a sip, offering the rest to Trevelyan. 

“I feel honored. Normally, I’d have to pry this from your hands.”

“You southerners have softened me. Don’t worry. A month in the Imperium, and any lingering generosity will be quashed.”

“Going back sometime soon?” Trevelyan asked, innocently enough, before swallowing the contents of the glass in two large gulps. He smiled at Dorian, but it didn’t reach his eyes. 

_Kaffas._

“Eventually, yes. Attempting to enact reforms would be rather ineffective from hundreds of miles away, wouldn’t it?”

Trevelyan smiled weakly, and turned toward the door. “Hundreds of miles,” he breathed, his voice low and distant, as though he’d been possessed by Cole. He grabbed the handle of the door, and opened it.

Dorian felt awful for having upset him, but it was a reality they would have to face, if not now, then later. 

“So I heard you loaned a book to Morrigan’s son? She seemed pleased.”

_Later it was._

“I did, and she should be. Although, there’s something about him, I can’t quite put my finger on it…” his voice trailed off, as he followed Trevelyan out the door to his room, and locked it behind him.

“I know what you mean. You feel it, right? The Anchor throbs when he’s around.”

“It causes you pain?” Dorian asked.

“You know that feeling, when you have a terrible headache, and you can feel your heart beating in your temple? Like that, but in my hand.”

Dorian winced slightly. “I thought you’d said it hadn’t caused you any pain since Haven? Let me see it!” 

Dorian grabbed for Trevelyan’s hand, and Trevelyan knew better than to resist. 

“It doesn’t hurt, but I’m acutely aware of the sensation.,” Trevelyan explained, as Dorian stared at the Mark, which glowed gently, the eerie green light blinking brightly in Trevelyan’s hand. “No offense, love, but what are you going to do about it?” Trevelyan sighed quietly. 

“I just wanted to see if it had changed in any visible way,” Dorian said, pulling Trevelyan’s hand closer as they marched through the Main Hall, which was relatively empty and quiet. A fire still burned in the fireplace, a sad attempt at heating the cavernous space.

“Not that I’m aware of, no.” 

Dorian released Trevelyan from his grip, and looked up at him. “Fine, then. Thank you for humoring me, _Amatus._ ”

“Anytime, love.”

Trevelyan’s quarters were warm and inviting, the crackling wood in the fireplace fighting the cold that stung against the beautiful windows that lead out on to the balconies. Trevelyan hadn’t opened them in weeks, which was unlike him. Even in the dead of winter, he’d stroll onto the balcony and lean against the railing, as the cold wind whipped through his hair. On several occasions, Dorian had pulled him back into his room, for fear that Trevelyan would fall ill, as he was perfectly content to feel the wind against his skin for hours on end, no matter how biting. 

_Why do you insist on making me worry?_

_Because I never thought I’d have this. Any of this._ Trevelyan had waved his hand across the room, and stopped on Dorian. _I thought I’d be locked in a Circle for the rest of my life. They would never have let me step out onto a balcony back then – too many of us would to tried to jump, or so they thought._

It was easy to forget that Trevelyan’s life had been so different, and had changed so drastically in such a short period of time. He’d resigned himself to his fate, and just when he’d gotten comfortable, it all went up in smoke – literally and figuratively – when he awoke as the Herald of Andraste.

They stripped down, and assumed their positions in bed. Trevelyan leaned over to kiss Dorian gently, and his fingers scratched lightly at his chest. 

“I should go get you some water. You’re probably parched, after that bottle of wine.”

“I’m quite alright, thank you.”

“Tomorrow’s going to be a rough day. I know how miserable a hangover is, especially on horseback.”

“What’s this about horseback?” 

“Oh, I didn’t tell you,” Trevelyan pulled himself up on his elbow, leaning his face on his hand. “You weren’t at dinner. It completely slipped my mind.”

“Answers, _Amatus._ ”

“We got word from Hawke. He’d found some Wardens in the Western Approach, gathering near an ancient Tevinter ritual tower. So you know the Venatori are involved in some fashion.”

“Of course they are,” Dorian moaned. 

“So, we’ll be leaving tomorrow for the Western Approach. But we do have a stop along the way,” Trevelyan smirked apologetically.

“ _Kaffas_ , if the next words out of your mouth have anything to do with snow-capped mountain towns in Orlais, I swear to the Maker, I will throw you off the balcony.”

“Emprise du Lion,” Trevelyan whispered apologetically. 

“That’s it, I swear,” Dorian wrapped his arms around Trevelyan, and began to pull him off the bed, Dorian’s feet slipping onto the floor to give him leverage. Trevelyan laughed hysterically, and desperately tried to fight Dorian, but he was far too amused with the display to put up much effort. 

Sliding back underneath of Trevelyan, Dorian smiled up at the man above him. In the back of his mind, the uncertainty of the future flared angrily, the darkness and doubt of a life apart from Trevelyan souring the otherwise happy moment. 

Trevelyan caught a glimpse, and his laughter stopped. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, _Amatus_.”

He kissed Trevelyan, to ease the tension, and to help himself forget the ‘goodbye’ that hung over their heads. 

“I love you,” Trevelyan whispered, as his hand traveled down Dorian’s side, his fingers pressed against Dorian’s skin, as though he were trying to find a place that he could hold onto forever. 

Maybe Dorian was imagining that part.

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my loves. It's been a while, but I'm back, dutifully, as always.
> 
> I played and beat Trespasser, and I have feelings.
> 
> MILD TRESPASSER SPOILERS. LIKE HARDLY EVEN SPOILERS, BUT I'M NOT GETTING YELLED AT FOR NOT WARNING YOU.
> 
> SERIOUSLY, SPOILERS.
> 
> I suppose we'll have to wait until DA4 to see how the Inquisitor/Dorian romance pans out, all things considered? If there's a Hawke in the Fade decision, sorry, I'm saving Quizzy. He and Dorian need their happily ever after!
> 
> END SPOILERS.
> 
> NO REALLY, I PROMISE THEY ARE DONE.
> 
> So this chapter! I love Morrigan a lot. I could listen to her and Flemeth read a phone book. It's a thing of beauty.
> 
> Focus Abilities will start popping up here and there. It's about that time, I figure. Dorian Haste'd, and it was glorious, and I was very proud of him. LOL.
> 
> I don't have much to say! I liked this chapter. I like Cullen and Dorian playing chess! I like Sera making innuendo on the battlefield! I like when Bull is unconscious (I SET DEVOUR TO PREFERRED; WHY ARE YOU STILL DYING?!?!)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for tuning in again. More to come! A brief layover at Emprise, before teetering off to the Western Approach to meet with Hawke once more.
> 
> And then, looming in the distance, is Adamant. That's going to be a really fun chapter. I've been thinking about Adamant and the Fade for MONTHS. I know exactly what I'm going to do, and I hope you like it.
> 
> Thanks again for the kudos, comments, subscriptions, page views, positive energy, etc. etc. etc. You all make writing this fic so amazingly worth it. 
> 
> P.S. - I thought Trespasser would kill my urge to finish this tale. But I think it reinvigorated me. I want to tell this story. I have lots to say, and I don't think I'm quite over Dorian x Trevelyan.


	24. The Song and the Silence

Dorian stared out the window onto the barren landscape, and watched as the dragon lazily circled overhead, dipping down toward the frozen lake, its jaws snapping down around the body of an unsuspecting snofleur, before returning to the gigantic circular structure in the distance to dismantle the corpse that dangled from its mouth, surely. They were majestic creatures, best admired from a distance, as opposed to running away from their gaping maws as they attempted to freeze you where you stood with their enchanted breath.

If only Dorian had managed to skip the Dragon Age. He would have much preferred the Peeled Grapes Age. Or the Wine Age. Or the Tevinter-finally-gets-its-shit-together Age. 

_Oh well. Might as well make do with what you have._

He watched as his breath fogged the window, and sketched his face into the glass, a crude representation certainly, but easily identifiable, as he put the final touches on the curls of his mustache. He sighed, as the space next to his face glazed over with condensation. He paused for a moment, and raised a finger. _Lovesick idiot._

His hand made quick work of the depiction, stopping only momentarily at the eyebrows. They were set so sternly in his face, as though they were burdened by the weight of the world, and really, they almost were. But they seemed lighter around him, slightly more rounded and calm, as though for a moment, the world had vanished, and no weight bore down upon him. That’s the face Dorian remembered. That was the face that Dorian loved.

So he settled on rounding them slightly, giving Trevelyan’s face a calm, happy look. The crooked smirk certainly helped. 

Dorian rolled his eyes at himself, and for a moment, debated wiping his hand over the shapes to blur them from existence, so none might bear witness to his foolishness. But then again, this may be the only record of Trevelyan and himself that would ever exist. Of course, they might find themselves in the history books. Trevelyan, more likely than not, would go down in the annals as the savior of Thedas in her darkest hour, the exalted Herald, ringing out across the ages. Maybe after all was said and done, they’d add a line about Trevelyan to the Chant.

But Dorian was sure that he’d be excised from the texts, or relegated to a small footnote – _The Inquisitor had taken a lover, a Tevinter, of whom everyone was extremely suspicious_ – and all that was between them would be forgotten, like the knowledge of the ancient elves, swallowed by the ground, lost to time.

And maybe, one day, he’d make a name for himself in the Imperium, a name that someone might find worth writing down. He’d lead the charge for a renewed Tevinter, free of the corruption that had shackled it for centuries, and someday, maybe hundreds of years from now, a charming bookworm with a penchant for sarcasm would come across it and be inspired by the former pariah who’d returned, and lead the Imperium to greatness once more. 

But Trevelyan’s name would never appear alongside his. No Tevinter would waste the ink on a Southerner. 

Dorian sighed, and looked. The condensation had faded, the outlines just barely visible on the glass panes. If this was to be the only evidence that the Herald of Andraste and the Tevinter upstart were once lovers, well, so be it. 

They knew. That was enough.

____

 

Dorian had gone searching for Trevelyan; it had been hours since he’d last seen him. He was probably helping with the relief efforts down in the town, or overseeing the rebuilding of Judicael’s Crossing, which had been destroyed by the Red Templars in an effort to hobble those who might come to the aid of the citizens of Emprise du Lion.

They’d managed to take the Quarry easily enough – it was, of course, well-guarded, but several of Leliana’s agents had snuck to the high ground and signaled their small group, alerting them to the number of enemies and what types of monstrosities they’d be facing around the next corner. It had worked surprisingly well, but then again, Dorian was all but certain that the Red Templars were nothing more than mindless drones at this point, incapable of anything but the most menial of tasks, completely stripped of higher cognitive functions by the red crystal that had encased them.

Regardless of how much of their consciousness they managed to retain, they were still a struggle to take down. Dorian had consumed two lyrium potions before they’d managed to clear the whole place out. Cassandra had gotten surprisingly effective at defeating the creatures. She’s purposefully whiff a blow, only to lure them into striking her, and swiftly remove their limbs without excessive effort. Dorian made sure she had sufficient cover, and that no archers or ranged units posed a threat to her assault. 

Blackwall kept Dorian and Varric shielded from incoming fire, until Varric decided to litter the battleground with his explosive traps, at which point Blackwall had shoved Dorian back with absolutely no warning. Dorian fell onto his ass, and in his haste, nearly lit the Warden on fire. Thankfully, he noticed the Templar running toward them, and drew a barrier in front of Blackwall instead. They watched as the mangled beast tripped over one of Varric’s mines, which exploded, shooting the creature into the air, until he landed on several more, which ripped through the Templar’s body and left not much more than a glowing red husk behind. Dorian quickly stood up, and loosed a small stream of water at Blackwall’s hair.

“What are you doing?!” Blackwall shouted.

“Putting out the fire on your head. You can thank me later.” 

Blackwall nodded sternly at him, and growled his appreciation.

“And next time, if you could, a little gentler with the shoving. But I appreciate the gesture.” 

Trevelyan had become something of an acrobat, darting through the battlefield in a blur of crystalline fury, his green blade coated in the glittering ruby blood of the Red Templars, severing limbs with alarming alacrity. His ability had improved significantly, but he had a tendency to rely on the same spells – Fade Step into Spirit Blade, with a Fire Mine planted carefully behind him to stop any potential back attacks. Several Shadows had attempted to plant their knife-like arms into his back, and immediately regretted it, when the flames rose up around and consumed them.

Varric had offered to unlock the cages that held the workers from the small town of Sahrnia, Trevelyan had sliced through the locks with his blade.

“I think this works just fine,” he’d reasoned.

The Keep was large, and the rooms that were tucked away inside of it were surprisingly well-kept. Of course, they’d had to clear out several giants, infused with and empowered by red lyrium, but they’d learned a few lessons from their brush with the beasts in the Graves. Trevelyan had immediately darted out behind the Giants, and made quick work of the tendons in their ankles, effectively crippling them. Of course, the additional Red Templars complicated matters, but nothing that the group, collectively, could not handle. 

When they’d finally reached the top of the Keep, after what had seemed like endless waves of Red Templars, they encountered the demon in charge of Corypheus’ red lyrium mining operation. It called itself “Imshael.” 

Trevelyan had humored the monster, which had taken the form of a man, and not a particularly attractive one. Strange, for a Desire Demon, but Dorian was less concerned with the beast’s unimpressive form, and more concerned with the fact that Trevelyan was speaking with it, allowing it to lay out a bargain. Power. Gold. Virgins.

“Which one should I choose, Cassandra?” Trevelyan asked.

The Seeker looked on, horrified, as though he’d just pissed on a statue of Andraste. Dorian almost spoke up, to tell Trevelyan to end this madness, when he saw the Spirit Blade materialize in Trevelyan’s hand.

“You’re a Desire Demon. Shouldn’t you be able to offer me something that I actually want?”

“Hmm…” Imshael purred, his eyes gazing over the group, stopping on Dorian. They glinted darkly at him. “You already have it, but not forever.”

That was all Trevelyan needed to hear, apparently. His blade dug into the Demon’s head, as it twisted its form into that of a Fear Demon, screeching violently at Trevelyan’s continued assault.

They tore through the opposition, but Dorian was slightly distracted. _He meant you, Pavus_. Was Trevelyan willing to sink to bargaining with demons to keep Dorian around? Dorian shot a chain of lightning across the field, at the Red Templar Horrors that had been guarding Imshael. No, he must have been joking. There was no way Trevelyan would have done something that awful.

When the Demon had finally been smote, Cassandra had confronted him.

“What were you doing, bargaining with a demon?” Anger laced her tone. 

“I was only joking. I was hoping he’d give up some information about Corypheus, if I could keep him talking long enough.”

“You shouldn’t have humored it. You can’t give a demon an inch, especially not a desire demon.” 

“I’m aware. It was a poor choice, and it didn’t pay off. He’s dead and gone, so we have nothing to worry about.”

Dorian had brushed it aside for the moment, but it was mildly upsetting. Trevelyan ought to be smarter than to think he could outplay a desire demon. Worse still, it saw right through him.

_He wants you to stay._

If Dorian was being honest with himself, that revelation gave him more pause than anything. He would have to speak with Trevelyan, at some point. Then again, he could always wait for Trevelyan to come to him. No point in baiting him into a conversation that was sure to be a disappointment to the both of them, when everything was good and right, when hearing Trevelyan’s light snoring in the morning still brought him immeasurable joy. 

He’d come to a large door, and knocked quietly upon it. No response. He opened the door, and peeked inside. Behind a folding screen, he could hear the sound of water splashing quietly, and the low humming of a man’s voice. 

Trevelyan. _Finally._

He opened the door, and slipped inside. He made to announce his presence, but not before Trevelyan began to sing quietly. Dorian couldn’t quite make out the words, so he inched forward slowly, careful not to make a sound. He’d never heard Trevelyan sing before, and he wasn’t about to interrupt the show. The words flowed effortlessly from his mouth, and Dorian listened quietly.

Well, he wasn’t classically trained, but the simplicity of his voice and the richness of his tone stopped Dorian from taking another step. There was something so beautiful, so aching, in the way that his voice lilted across the words. Dorian assumed it was an old Marcher hymn, and that Trevelyan’s breeding had lent itself to the rustic beauty of his voice. 

Suddenly, Dorian wanted to be known. 

Dorian stepped carefully toward the folding screen, and carefully peeked his eyes around the corner. Trevelyan stood in the basin, a stream of water rising up through the air and trickling down on to his body, illuminating every single sinew, a glorious portrait that Dorian had seen time and time again. 

His eyes were closed as he ran his fingers through his hair, lathering it with fragrant oil – the bottle that Dorian had purchased for him – as he continued to sing. Dorian carefully stepped toward the basin, feeling the warmth of the mist that permeated the air. 

Trevelyan’s eyes shot open, and a look of horror crossed his face. 

“ _Maker, Dorian!_ ” He yelped, as he nearly fell out of the basin. Dorian grabbed at him, but his body was too slick to hold on to, and he tumbled over the side of the basin, landing with a thud on the floor. 

“I’m sorry!” Dorian apologized. “I didn’t want to interrupt you.” _Really stepped in it this time, Pavus._

“If I’d known you were in here, I wouldn’t have been singing at all!” Trevelyan half-shouted, picking himself up from off the stone floor and righting himself in the basin. His breathing was strained, and he glared at Dorian. “ _Maker!_ ” he cursed again. 

“Why wouldn’t you been singing?” Dorian asked, puzzled. “You have a lovely voice.”

“I just…” Trevelyan huffed. “I’m not very good. I sing for myself. _Maker!_ ” He huffed furiously. He ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes still bulging out of their sockets, his breathing heavy and intense. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” _Come on; accept my apology so I can stop feeling like an idiot._

Trevelyan sighed, and his shoulders dropped slightly. Dorian reached a tentative hand out toward his waist, and Trevelyan didn’t try to stop him, but he certainly didn’t respond like he usually would: grabbing Dorian in return, stroking his cheek with his thumb, kissing Dorian wherever his lips could find purchase. 

“Was that a Marcher song?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Trevelyan muttered, rubbing his face with his hands, his shoulders tensing up once more. Dorian looked up at his eyes, but Trevelyan was avoiding his gaze. 

“I shouldn’t have snuck up on you. I apologize.” 

Trevelyan sighed, and placed his hands on his hips. “You didn’t mean anything by it. It’s fine. I was just surprised.”

“Would you like me to leave?” Dorian asked. 

“No,” Trevelyan said, pulling at the clasps on Dorian’s shirt, undoing the buckles and straps that held it in place. Dorian was smart enough not to fight him. “I want you here. I just wish I’d known you were coming.” 

Dorian wanted to continue his line of questioning, but thought better of pushing the issue. Trevelyan was clearly upset, and Dorian didn’t want to upset him any further by making him talk.

“It’s just…” Trevelyan started. “This will sound terribly stupid.”

_Well, that was easy._

“You’re far too hard on yourself, _Amatus_.” Dorian pulled a hand up to the back of Trevelyan’s head, and rubbed his thumb along the short hairs. Trevelyan threw Dorian’s shirt to the side of the room, and reached down for the buckle of his pants. 

“When I was little, my grandfather would sing to me, and I’d learned to sing back, when I was old enough. He’d teach me song after song, and I would learn the little harmonies he taught me, so we could sing together. He wanted me to study music – he had connections to a tutor in Val Royeaux, apparently, who’d performed in the Grand Cathedral, in the Divine’s Chorale – and he was convinced that I could do the same. I could only have been six or seven at the time, but it seemed so exciting. So that became my own little plan for my life.”

He sighed again, and looked out the window. “So, you can imagine that came to an end, the day I was taken to the Circle. But it was fine; I made new plans. I’d behave, be a proper Circle mage, make the best of my circumstances, and maybe I’d be able to get a special dispensation, to live outside of the walls of the Circle, to move far away, somewhere with white sand beaches and turquoise waters, where – “ 

“White sand beaches and turquoise waters, you said?” Dorian asked, completely interrupting Trevelyan.

“Well, yes… I mean, I’d only ever read about them in books, but it seemed –“ 

“No, that’s perfectly reasonable. I apologize for my outburst, please continue.” 

He maintained a semblance of calm, even though he was extremely concerned – how was it that he was having dreams of white sand beaches and turquoise seas, every few weeks, for the past several months? It must have been the Anchor, dragging Dorian down into the Fade as he slept, and laying out the image of Trevelyan’s idyllic hopes. Dorian could debate this later. Trevelyan was still talking, after all, and Dorian ought to be listening. 

“So… I met that Templar, and I was a love struck teenager in what I felt was one of those tragic romances in one of the plays my mother always dragged my father to, and I made plans. Somehow, things would work. Chalk it up to being a teenager, locked up in a tower. And, well, those plans went awry.”

“Could have been worse,” Dorian smiled at him. Trevelyan smirked back.

“It’s easy to see that in retrospect, but at the time, you couldn’t have said anything to soothe my broken heart. But time passed, and I let go. It was a small detour, I suppose.”

He looked away wistfully. Dorian removed his pants, and stepped into the basin with Trevelyan. The water below them had started to get cold, and Dorian waved his hand to warm it, pulling it up in a beautiful arc that cascaded over their bodies. 

“It’s so effortless and elegant with you,” Trevelyan smiled.

“Naturally. I was trained properly, of course. Not to mention my own personal flair. But enough about how wonderful I am,” 

“I never thought I’d hear that sentence come out of your mouth.”

“Finish your story.”

“Alright, so the next few years of my life passed uneventfully, and then talk about the rebellion began to spread throughout the Circles. It was a frightening time. New restrictions were imposed – we were so close to Kirkwall, I guess they were afraid that blood magic was contagious – and eventually, the Circles fell.”

“So you left?”

“No. I was the proper Circle mage, remember? I stayed. I was afraid. They had my phylactery. If the rebellion was crushed, they’d track me down and lock me away for my disobedience. I wanted to give them no reason to prevent me from leaving, if and when that become an option.” 

Trevelyan leaned his head back, into the stream of water that arced through the air behind him. 

“So, the Conclave…” Dorian started.

“So, the Conclave,” Trevelyan started, his voice bitter and sarcastic. “We left the Circle, under the impression that we’d be brokering some sort of agreement that would end the rebellion and guarantee us some rights. On the way there, we joined with several other groups – Templars and mages from other Circles in the Marches, mercenaries-for-hire that had been contracted to provide security, as neutral third parties. As if there was truly a neutral party among them. Everyone had their opinions, and the only thing that kept them quiet was the possibility of peace.

“I’d met a Tal-Vashoth mercenary. He had tired of his time in his company, and wanted to move north, for the chance at a more peaceful life. We talked about what might happen at the Conclave, if the mages were finally allowed a chance at freedom. He offered me to come with him; we’d travel together to Antiva, or possibly Rivain, even though he wasn’t so keen on the Qunari presence there.”

“How… _well_ did you get to know him?” Dorian asked. _Jealous, Pavus?_

“Well enough, I suppose,” Trevelyan said, completely innocently. “We were only on the road together for two weeks, at the very longest.”

Dorian nodded sympathetically, but took a twisted pleasure in knowing that the affair had been brief, at best. _Now, now, Pavus, this isn’t an opponent in the Magisterium, whose untimely death was to be celebrated._

“Did Bull know him? There aren’t that many Tal-Vashoth mercenaries this far south.” 

“Here’s a laugh: I only knew his last name.”

“Two weeks with a man, and you never even bothered to find out his first name?”

“No. It was all he offered up when we met, and I didn’t think to question it,” Trevelyan mimicked the gruff voice of the mercenary, “’Name’s Adaar.’”

“I’m assuming he perished in the explosion at the Conclave. I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

“Ah, well,” Trevelyan started, looking down at his feet in the basin. “I’d only known him two weeks, but it was exciting, for a moment, to think that I was so close to what I wanted, and then…”

He trailed off, and looked back out the window. Dorian wasn’t sure if it was the moisture on his face, or if he was blinking back tears. 

“Boom?” 

_Oh, how wonderfully indelicate, Pavus! What next? Plant a knee in his privates and watch him squirm?_

Trevelyan chuckled lightly, a dry, heartless noise rumbling from his chest, and rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Boom. My life has been a long series of booms.” 

“I’m sorry. It’s easy to forget, with such impeccably well-set shoulders, the burden that you carry. We’ve all been guilty, from time to time, of failing to see the man behind the title.”

“Please, you’d never go so easy on me.”

“I could be much worse, believe me,” Dorian arched an eyebrow, and Trevelyan smirked in response. “The thing is: you’re the hero we all aspire to be.”

“I’m not that good.”

“You’re better than the lot of us, that’s for certain.”

“I try,” his voice a crackling breath, and again he shot a wistful look out the window. The corners of his eyes were wet. It was not from the water in the basin.

“I know, _Amatus_ ,” Dorian whispered in response, and pulled Trevelyan closer, pressing himself up against his body. Trevelyan wrapped his arms around Dorian’s waist and squeezed gently, his head dipping over Dorian’s shoulder, his chin resting carefully against Dorian’s skin.

All that Dorian could hear was the sounds of the warm water, gliding through the air and cascading down their bodies. Dorian certainly hoped the effect was as calming as he intended it to be. 

Trevelyan pulled away, and smiled weakly. “You’ll have your chance to be the hero. Once you return to Tevinter.” 

The water in the basin might have turned to ice, for all Dorian would have noticed. He’d been so leery to even mention his homeland since having received the letter from his father a few days prior. But here Trevelyan was, dropping it much like a fire mine underneath their feet, and Dorian shuddered, anticipating the inevitable explosion.

“It’s not as though I were leaving tomorrow. We haven’t put an end to Corypheus’ machinations. I will not return to my homeland until I see this through. That was the entire basis for my joining the Inquisition; you know that as well as anyone.”

Trevelyan looked at him for a moment, the weak smile plastered on his face. “We all have plans, I suppose. I’m guilty of forgetting that this moment won’t last forever.”

Dorian’s heart sunk into the basin. _If only it could, Amatus._

It was tempting, the idea. Cozying up with Trevelyan in the South, standing by the side of the Inquisitor. How many would step over his cold, dead body, after having planted a knife in his back, for the opportunity to walk hand-in-hand with the Inquisitor? They were legion. Men and women across Thedas had thrown themselves at him, in letters and in person. 

And here Dorian was, practically spurning him. _No, that’s not it at all._ Like Trevelyan, Dorian had a life prior to the Inquisition – certainly, not much of one – that he’d uprooted for the sake of accomplishing this most noble of goals. But Trevelyan couldn’t expect him to forsake everything that would come after Corypheus’ defeat, all for the sake of him?

Temptation was a horrifying thing. Dorian had fallen victim to it, time and time again. The temptation to drown himself in liquor and men had all but ruled his existence in the Imperium.

The particular temptation that Trevelyan presented was different, though. Trevelyan was complacency. Dorian would have a comfortable position by Trevelyan’s side, until the day that they both died. But he’d never taste the satisfaction of whipping his homeland into something respectable. As wonderful as a life waking up next to Trevelyan every morning might be, Dorian knew he would grow restless, and resentful, and there would be no life with Trevelyan at all then. 

“For what it’s worth,” Trevelyan suddenly started, “I think you’d make an excellent Magister. I know the Inquisition’s support in the Imperium is all but meaningless, but… I’d make sure you had whatever it was that you needed.”

Dorian stood, staring up at Trevelyan’s eyes, which gleamed glassily back at him, crinkled in the corners with warmth. 

“ _Amatus_ …” 

“No more talk of this,” Trevelyan said, his voice returning to its normal cadence. “I have you here, now.”

Dorian couldn’t help but smile. “It may not be a white sand beach,” he waved toward the window, “but there’s nowhere I’d rather be, _Amatus_.”

They kissed as the water wrapped around them once more, deep and calm, as though they’d sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Trevelyan’s lips moved themselves out to the edges of Dorian’s, and down his chin.

“I’ve been in the bath so long at this point, I’m starting to prune,” Trevelyan laughed, looking at his fingers. “Let’s get this finished, and find something to eat.”

“An excellent plan,” Dorian replied, turning to look for the bar of soap he’d seen on the floor. Trevelyan’s arms reached out to him, and pulled Dorian’s back to his chest. 

“Let’s hope there’s no explosion,” he laughed, his arms wrapped around Dorian’s waist, as he kissed Dorian’s shoulders. “But then again, at this point, I’m a master at changing my plans.”

Dorian’s hands traced over Trevelyan’s arms, and he leaned back to kiss Trevelyan once more. Trevelyan began to rock slowly, and Dorian turned back, leaning into Trevelyan’s embrace. Trevelyan’s chin rested just slightly over Dorian’s shoulder, and Dorian felt the quiet hum rise up in Trevelyan, the same tune that he’d been singing earlier. Suddenly, the humming turned into words, a warm, breathy bass filling Dorian’s ears. 

Trevelyan finished his song, and kissed Dorian gently on the nape of his neck. Dorian turned, unsatisfied, his mouth eagerly finding Trevelyan's, Trevelyan's hands eagerly cupping Dorian's ass.

He hoped Trevelyan wouldn't mind the change of plans. 

____

 

“Everything in the south reeks. If it’s not livestock, it’s something else that invariably offends the senses.” 

Dorian huffed at Trevelyan’s side, as they marched through the vast wasteland. 

“The land itself is blighted, and has been for hundreds of years,” Blackwall informed him. 

“Yes, yes, Second Blight, Toth, Abyssal Rift, I know the history. And I wasn’t talking about the land, Blackwall.”

Blackwall snorted in disapproval, and Trevelyan poked Dorian in his side. 

“Play nice,” he chastised him.

“I am _always_ nice,” Dorian replied.

“ _Ugh_ ,” Cassandra rolled her eyes. Varric chuckled, marching along by her side. 

“Regardless of present company, I don’t think we’ve come across a single thing that isn’t decaying, noxious, or fetid.”

“There was that High Dragon before. Why don’t you go find her, and say that to her face?” Varric offered.

“You also forgot to mention the Venatori we found in those ruins. More time magic – how familiar,” Blackwall said, staring daggers at Dorian.

“You’ll note that their attempt at time magic ultimately lead to their demise, whereas we’re all still standing. Even so, you’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing my skills firsthand.”

“I wouldn’t call being ripped through time a ‘pleasure,’ but to each their own.” Blackwall grumbled.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Varric said. “Kind of feels like you’re being squished beneath the foot of a dragon, but I’m sure that was no fault of yours, Sparkler.”

“Really?” Trevelyan turned, surprised. “That’s not how it was for me at all.”

“Why is this the first time I’m hearing about any of this?” Dorian asked.

“We were busy worrying whether or not we’d made it back to the right place; again, no offense to you. I know when to cut the color commentary, Sparkler.”

“And when is that, Varric?” Cassandra asked. 

“It felt like… hiding behind a barrier while a dragon breathes frost at you,” Trevelyan added dreamily, in a voice much like Cole’s. 

_Kaffas. All these fucking dragon similes._

“This is incredibly relevant information!” Dorian shouted. “There are a thousand implications that arise… Ugh! Why did none of you say anything?!” 

“Maybe it’s just different for everyone?” Trevelyan offered.

“That may very well be the case, but without testing, experimentation…” Dorian stopped. _None of it mattered_. His notes were naught but ash, probably swept up by the servants who maintained the fireplaces of Skyhold. He felt his hands drop to his side. _Years of work, and all for naught._

_All the more reason you need to return home. If you could unravel the secrets of time itself, well, the Magisterium will be nothing but a knot in your hair. A few passes of a stiff-bristled brush, and all will be right._

“Dorian?” Trevelyan stopped. The rest of the group turned, and continued walking. 

“I’m fine. Just… disappointed, I suppose. Not in myself, mind you. I’m sterling, as per usual.”

“I understand. I wish you could have continued the research, but it was incredibly dangerous. You saw what happened; how easily I could have been wiped from history if you weren’t there to save me.” Trevelyan took a step forward. “I don’t know if I ever thanked you properly.” A hand slid its way on to Dorian’s waist.

Dorian looked up at Trevelyan. “We’re going to talk about it. Tonight, before we go to sleep. I want you to understand exactly how I made it all work. A long, painful conversation about magical theory that will be improved immeasurably by my mellifluous voice. Someone needs to appreciate my genius.”

Trevelyan’s eyebrows furrowed, and his lips curled for but a moment. He smoothed out his features, and looked deep into Dorian’s eyes. “I would be more than happy to listen. I only ask one thing.”

“Conditioning your acceptance? This doesn’t bode well.”

“In acknowledging your superior education and understanding of abstract magical theory, I ask only that you take your time and be patient with me. I’m a southerner, after all.”

“That was just the right amount of ass-kissing and self-deprecation, you know. You’ve really perfected your craft,” Dorian laughed. 

“I spend so much time kissing yours, I ought to have,” Trevelyan purred.

“Fine, you’ve convinced me. We’ll save the magical theory for after the sex this evening.” Dorian pecked him on the lips, and began to move past him. “We ought to catch up with the rest of them, don’t you think?”

Trevelyan tilted his head back, looking up toward the midday sun, and exhaled. “You have the nastiest habit of getting me going, and leaving me hanging.” 

“In the middle of the Western Approach? _Amatus_ , please. The odor alone does nothing for the libido.”

“Ugh.” Trevelyan turned, and chased after Dorian, slipping a thumb in Dorian’s belt. “I suppose I can wait until this evening. Maybe after we meet with Hawke, we can capture that keep in the north?”

“You wouldn’t be the first man to go to war over sex.” Trevelyan chuckled lightly at the joke. “You know, you are exceptionally easygoing, considering the amount of people you’re willing to kill in order to sleep with me.”

“Modest in temper, bold in deed,” Trevelyan said, his detached tone indicative of the thousands of times his family’s motto had been drilled into his head. They’d managed to catch up with the rest of the group, as they rounded a craggy wall of stone. It was smooth and sharp all at once, the rock having been eroded by the ages, and interrupted by the Blight, huge chunks of sediment ripped from the side of the formation. 

Dorian watched a varghest trod through the sands in the distance. He wondered how long this particular species had roamed these desolate dunes. Had there been varghests living here before the Blight? Had they always been this way, or did the Blight change them, twist them into some new form? 

“Blackwall, are you sure you’ll be alright?” Cassandra asked. “We cannot be quite sure what the Grey Wardens’ involvement in Corypheus’ plot will be.”

“I’ve seen plenty during my time,” Blackwall muttered. “Nothing shocks me any longer.”

“Of course,” Cassandra replied. They all shuffled along toward the silhouette in the distance. Early Tevinter architecture, from when the Imperium’s reach spread across the entirety of Thedas, that much Dorian could make out. 

_How far we’ve fallen. The Imperium was once so much more. Now, it’s nothing but a decaying husk, teetering on the brink of ruin._

Of course, Dorian had no desire to lead Tevinter back to its glory days of conquest, to have all of Thedas united under the banners of the Imperium once more. Rather than endlessly attempting to reclaim a past that was unable to be reclaimed, it seemed like a much better use of his time and talent to start hacking away at the dated traditions and corruption that plagued the Imperium. 

Of course, carving out that bright future didn’t require abandoning everything. There were a choice selection of buildings that still stood from ages past, and the knowledge that had been accumulated in the libraries across Tevinter. The achievements and the marvels, all preserved for the future, so that in whichever direction you looked, backwards or forwards, greatness would surround you.

“Is that Hawke? And Stroud with her?” Trevelyan asked, his neck craning to get a better view of the figure leaning against the wall of the structure, his vision hampered by the midday sun. He turned to look at Cassandra, who squinted furiously in an attempt to discern the identity of the mysterious shape.

Suddenly, the figure stood up from the wall, placed her hands on her hips, and tilted her head to the side. The cascade of raven locks blew in the wind, shining in the bright light of the day. The man by her side strutted forward carefully to join her. 

“That’s Hawke all right,” Varric smiled, before lifting up an arm to wave. “Hey!” He shouted.

“So much for the element of surprise,” Cassandra spat, as she massaged her temples with one hand spread across her forehead. Hawke shook her head disapprovingly in the distance.

_Well, this ought to be interesting_ , Dorian thought. _I wonder what will kill me first – a rogue Warden, a Venatori, or Varric’s loud mouth?_

“Varric! Glad to see you’re still utterly incapable of keeping your mouth shut,” Hawke muttered quietly as they approached. Stroud glared down at the dwarf.

“Some things never change,” Varric replied. His tone completely belied the severity of the mission.

_It will be the latter, no question._

___

 

“So you knew that Venatori?”

“Which one exactly? The ones in the Still Ruins, Livius, or Macrinus?”

“The last one,” Blackwall decided.

“I’d bested him in a duel when I was but a child, back in one of the Circles at which I’d studied in my youth. He was several years older than me, and sadly, it seems as though his technique has not improved.”

“Hmph,” Blackwall muttered. They’d just finished dinner, and were sitting around the campfire. Several agents of the Inquisition buzzed about, draping large swaths of fabric over the keep, erecting tents, or repairing the damage that had occurred during the fight to take back the stronghold from the Venatori that had plagued it, up until this afternoon. 

“What about those Wardens at the ritual shrine? Any familiar faces?”

“No,” Blackwall replied curtly, before inhaling deeply. “I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing.”

When they’d managed to kill the Warden Mages that were being controlled by Corypheus, Hawke and Stroud had quickly made haste to follow Livius. They suspected that the was heading in the direction of Adamant Fortress, an ancient structure from the Second Blight that overlooked the Abyssal Rift, from which thousands of darkspawn had poured like viscous oil at the beck and call of the Archdemon Toth.

Trevelyan turned his attention up from some of the paperwork he’d found lying about the Approach during the day – various bits of information, really, on scraps of paper, which he always hoped might give them some information – and looked at Blackwall. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It must be hard to see the Wardens being used like this. Hopefully, we can find Warden Commander Clarel, and make her see reason.”

“Would she even listen?” Cassandra interjected, her annoyance palpable. “She was the one who set the Wardens on this course. Blood magic, demon summoning… The Wardens have gone too far.” Blackwall stared at her, a mix of anger and frustration clouding his face.

“Cassandra, let’s be fair. Lord Seeker Lucius was also a victim of Corypheus’ machinations. We should, at the very least, see if we can’t talk Clarel off this particular ledge. We may be able to stop her, before more Grey Wardens fall victim to Corypheus.”

Said without a hint of malice, Trevelyan’s entreaty to Cassandra’s compassion was sufficient to silence her. Without anything further to discuss, the lot of them parted ways, settling into the Keep for the evening. 

Trevelyan had managed to magic open – or, more specifically, blow clean off the hinges – the door to the inside of the keep, a twisting labyrinth with naught but small slits near the ceilings to provide any light. Trevelyan had opened the door to one of the rooms, and was greeted by the familiar clicks and shrieks of a giant spider. He proceeded to close the door, and Dorian felt the Fade whirl violently past him, through the cracks in the floor, into the room beyond. The series of violent explosions that followed confirmed his suspicions: Trevelyan had lined the floor with Fire Mines in the hopes that the beast would be incinerated, and it appeared that it had worked.

“I hope there was nothing of value in there. Regardless, I think we ought to look for another room.”

“You really need to overcome this fear of spiders,” Dorian prodded him, laughing.

“We all have our foibles,” Trevelyan replied, perfectly cheery, as he floated down the hall to another door, which thankfully, was not visibly inhabited by anything other than a small bed and a large trunk.

“Satisfactory?” Trevelyan asked.

“I thought a law had been passed in Orlais, forbidding any bed contained within its borders from being anything short of a glorious monstrosity,” Dorian snarked, sizing up the sad pieces of timber that had been assembled to create the wholly uninspiring bedframe. Trevelyan sauntered over to the bed, and went to sit, reaching down to unlace his boots, when the frame gave out, and he crashed to the floor. 

Dorian couldn’t help but laugh maniacally, and Trevelyan joined him, the sheer absurdity of the situation perfectly amusing to the pair of them. It wasn’t lost on Dorian that these moments, these small fumbles in darkened rooms, tucked away from the rest of the world, were the things he cherished most of all, when all the trappings of Trevelyan’s title were stripped away by the dusk, and the pair of them were nothing more than lovers, under the cover of the night sky. He’d longed for exactly this – well, maybe not Trevelyan sprawled out, guffawing breathlessly on the floor amongst splintered wood – for so long. Trevelyan beamed up at him, all teeth and joy and beauty and – oh, _Kaffas_ – he was dazzling. 

How could he ever leave this? To miss even a moment of Trevelyan’s antics – unintentional or not – would be like looking down at just the wrong moment, as a shooting star raced across the sky. 

He walked over to help Trevelyan up, but had an impossibly hard time removing his hands from his sides as he continued guffawing. Trevelyan beamed up at him, his hands hanging in his lap, like a small child who’d gotten into mischief, but too smart to be displeased with himself. Dorian finally managed to reach out a hand, and Trevelyan grabbed it, heaving himself up off the floor.

“You’re lucky this isn’t the Winter Palace. Josephine would have all but jumped off the balcony at this very moment.” 

“I have no idea how my luck held out all evening,” Trevelyan laughed. “Or how it’s held out for this long.” He looked up, out the small slit, and back down at Dorian. “No, that’s not right. I don’t think my luck has changed – it’s just been amplified.”

“How do you mean?” Dorian asked, puzzled.

“Well, take the Anchor. Who even knows what it is, at this point. Ever since I woke up in Haven, things have either gone terribly, or wonderfully. It seems there is no in-between. Maybe it’s because my luck is no longer mine – it’s you, it’s Cullen and our Troops, Josephine and the servants, Leliana, Cassandra…” he trailed off. “We travel through time, save the mages and the Templars, we seal the Breach, we lose Haven, we find Skyhold…” trailing off once again. He struggled to find the words. 

“I suppose I understand. It’s not that you’ve gotten luckier or unluckier – just that the peaks are much higher, and the valleys are much lower.”

“Thank you,” Trevelyan sighed. “My luck is riding on thousands of other people. Everything we’ve achieved is because of all that hard work. I just take the easy credit. Makes me feel like a bit of a shitbag, from time to time, honestly.”

“Now, don’t be so hard on yourself. I’ve never seen someone quite as gracious as you. I’ve watched you say ‘thank you,’ at four different points of a conversation that lasted six sentences. Believe me, I counted.”

“They deserve so much more. They’ve given their blood, sweat, and tears. Some of them have given their lives. How do I honor that? How do I make good on everything they’ve invested in the Inquisition? In me?”

Dorian stepped forward, and rested a hand on Trevelyan’s chest. “You’ll defeat Corypheus. He is the fire that burns beneath all of them, spurring the Inquisition on to greatness.”

“And after?” Trevelyan asked, uncertainty gripping him. “What then? 

Dorian sighed. “You can’t plan everything, Amatus. When we’ve defeated Corypheus, you’ll have a moment to breathe, and you can decide where you will go.”

Trevelyan chuckled, a quick, mirthless expulsion of sound, as he stared at his feet. “Where _I_ will go.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the space growing between them, and Dorian suddenly felt panicked, as though if the quiet lasted but a moment longer, Trevelyan would slip through his grasp, lost to him forever. 

Suddenly, Trevelyan turned, and the back of his hand grazed along Dorian’s cheek, his eyes set upon Dorian’s mouth. He exhaled quietly. “I don’t think we’re going to find another bed in this entire Keep. We might as well clean up the mess, and put the mattress on the floor.”

Dorian frowned. “Well, I suppose it’s a step up from the bed roll.”

Trevelyan smiled, his hand slipping away from Dorian’s face, and he turned, waving a hand and elevating the mattress above the ruined bedframe, as the wood underneath crumpled and slid over to the corner of the room by the door. The mattress floated against the wall, and gently to the ground.

Trevelyan dropped the pack that was slung over his shoulder, and opened it up, pulling out blankets that had been brought by the solders that now populated the Keep. He sunk gently to his knees, and began laying the blankets over the mattress, taking care to cover the mattress – Maker knew who, or what, had slept on it – and layering the blankets several times so they’d have something comfortable to tuck themselves under. Dorian, in the meantime, began to disrobe slowly, removing his cloak, his shirt, his gloves, placing them carefully on the chest that rested on the other side of that room. 

“Dorian?” Trevelyan called, and Dorian turned. Trevelyan motioned for Dorian to return to him, and Dorian stepped across the room. Trevelyan was still kneeling, and Dorian stepped up to him. Trevelyan’s hands reached up, and gently worked over the buckles that held Dorian’s pants up, carefully pulling them down his legs. He looked up at Dorian, and Dorian couldn’t help but notice the sad look in his eyes, the glittering green light of the Fade woven within Trevelyan’s irises. 

Trevelyan leaned forward, and planted kisses into Dorian’s hip bone, slow, steady, his lips dragging across Dorian’s skin, his eyes intent upon Dorian’s body. Dorian’s head rolled back instinctively, as he loosed a heavy breath. Trevelyan continued to kiss Dorian’s hip, careful to trace only the same pattern, careful to use only the slightest bit of tongue, careful that his fingers only traveled so far up Dorian’s legs before sliding back down. 

His tongue darted quickly along the line that trailed down to Dorian’s cock, slithering back up to Dorian’s hip in a languid yet purposeful motion. Dorian had tried desperately to maintain some semblance of control, but Trevelyan always managed to wrest it from him: the right look, a subtle shift in tone of voice, just the right patch of skin exposed, and Dorian’s resolve was shattered.

This was different though, and in spite of his rapidly swelling cock, Dorian couldn’t shake the image of Trevelyan’s eyes before his face turned away. Even the way that Trevelyan kissed Dorian, as slow and seductive as he intended to be, felt ever so subtly different.

The languorous motions of Trevelyan’s mouth were pulling Dorian away. It would be so easy to let himself fall over the edge and slip into the abyss, but Trevelyan’s eyes lingered in the back of his mind. He slipped a finger underneath Trevelyan’s chin, and lifted his face from his work.

“ _Amatus_ …” he whispered knowingly. Trevelyan stared up at him, and rose slowly to his feet. Trevelyan leaned forward, pressing his chest into Dorian’s, his head slipping over Dorian’s shoulder, his face pressing into Dorian’s neck. 

“Let me be selfish, at least for now,” Trevelyan murmured, his lips dragging across Dorian’s neck as he spoke. Dorian’s hands found themselves instinctively upon Trevelyan’s waist, as Trevelyan’s hand wrapped gently around Dorian’s cock, and began to slide up and down his shaft. 

Balancing on this precipice would prove impossible in but a few moments. Trevelyan’s kisses had become more purposeful, pressing into Dorian’s neck, his lips soft and full and gliding across Dorian’s skin as if it were the most delicate substance in the world. Dorian felt himself, hardened in Trevelyan’s hand, as Trevelyan’s fingertip swiped gently at the bead of precum that had formed at the tip of his cock, and Dorian sighed, shivering at the contact. Trevelyan pulled away from Dorian’s neck, and leaned his forehead against Dorian’s. 

Trevelyan smiled, more warmly than before, but something still lurked behind his eyes. There was a hunger, but Dorian was uncertain whether or not it could ever be sated. He wondered if what he felt was that same hunger.

“I’m yours.”

Trevelyan’s lips found their way to Dorian’s, as he gently pulled Dorian away from the dusty, sad square of a room in which they were present. For all Dorian knew, they were standing on that white sand beach, or the docks of Minrathous, or high in the Frostbacks, the Breach still hanging over their heads.

Dorian had taken Trevelyan’s lips for granted. His mind returned to that night, in the mountains just beyond Haven, where he and Trevelyan kissed for the first time. Now, those lips had become an expectation, and a kiss, nothing more that a rote recitation they’d performed a thousand times before, varying slightly with intensity, depending solely on what the moment called for: delicate pecks in public settings, deep embraces when the curtains were drawn around Trevelyan’s four-poster. 

How badly he’d longed for just the tiniest fraction of Trevelyan’s affection, way back when! He’d lost something in all the time that had passed since then – maybe it was the newness, the excitement of it all, the fear of falling too hard or too fast that had made that first kiss seem as though nothing else, not even the Breach that hung over their heads, was as important. 

But what happens after you’ve fallen? When the dazzle of a new romance turns into the mundane shimmer of everyday life? Dorian would never have guessed that he’d be mouthing ‘I love you’ across a dinner table filled with nobles looking to kiss the ass of his heaven-sent Amatus.

Was it all enough? 

Trevelyan’s bed had fast become Dorian’s favorite place in all Thedas, something of a home away from home, but the longer he was away from the Imperium, the more he longed to return. There was so much waiting for him, so much work to be done, all for the sake of building an Imperium that was, at the very least, worth the sense of superiority that had been carefully bred into its denizens throughout the millennia. 

He’d gotten lost, willingly, in an amorous haze, where one day drifts lazily into the next, when love is as steady and certain as the ground upon which they both trod. In that haze, however, he’d lost all sense of when; his past, his future, all subsumed by his affections for Trevelyan, and how Trevelyan made him feel. Being so close to someone who shone so brightly had blinded Dorian, temporarily. 

But unfortunately, his eyes had acclimated. Confronting his past, in the tavern in Redcliffe, had the unintended effect of reminding him that the future remained, and that his place was not to remain in perpetuity in the South. One day, he’d have to leave. 

And that ultimately meant that each moment with Trevelyan was a countdown to the moment when Dorian would finally depart from Skyhold, once and for all.

“Are you alright?” Trevelyan stopped. Dorian’s hands had unknowingly latched on the top buckle of Trevelyan’s cloak, having unfastened it and frozen there in a standstill.

“I’m fine, _Amatus_ ,” Dorian fibbed, staring at Trevelyan with eyes that had no intention of hiding his pain. Trevelyan stared at him plaintively, silently questioning what exactly was wrong. Dorian sighed. _There was no avoiding it._ “Alright, then. It occurs to me that we’ve gotten delightfully comfortable in this relationship, and while that’s all fine and well…” he drifted toward the conclusion, pausing only to catch his breath, and the nerve to turn that breath into a sentence, “I’ve been taking this for granted.”

“Okay…” Trevelyan said, slightly confused. 

“I love you, _Amatus_ , is all I meant to say.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was enough. 

“I love you, too,” Trevelyan murmured, before planting a kiss on Dorian’s cheekbone. 

“I suppose you when you’ve acclimated yourself to loving someone who narrowly avoids death on an almost daily basis, you forget just how much you’d miss them, if they were gone.”

Trevelyan smiled, his lips curling ever so slightly upward. “You never know. My luck could run out some time soon.”

“So then, let’s not waste any more time.” Dorian’s hands found their way to Trevelyan’s second buckle, which came undone with the swift movement of his fingers. As much as the future weighed on his mind, there was nothing he could do about it in this moment, other than cause Trevelyan more pain by callously informing him that, once all was said and done, he’d be leaving for the Imperium.

Trevelyan, luckily, took whatever explanation Dorian had offered, and his lips resumed their place, taking Dorian’s in their thrall, as Dorian busied himself removing the layers that remained between their bodies.

_Don’t take him for granted. Your time together is precious. Even more so, now that you know what lies ahead._

Dorian had done fine work stripping the pair of them down to nearly nothing, and Trevelyan, with a quick Fade Cloak, pulled them out of their clothes and onto the bed, phasing into reality just before they landed on the mattress, Dorian falling all too easily into his arms. 

Trevelyan’s hands glided gently over Dorian’s back, the soft pressure that made Dorian melt even further into him. Trevelyan began to nibble gently on Dorian’s lip, and Dorian couldn’t help but smile. 

“What?” Trevelyan giggled lightly. Dorian was relieved to hear the mirth in Trevelyan’s voice. 

“Nothing at all,” Dorian laughed back between kisses, as Trevelyan’s hands grabbed at his ass, digging into the flesh. “I just adore the way your teeth scrape along my lip. Your southern barbarism must be rubbing off on me.”

“And here I thought I’d been behaving myself,” Trevelyan smirked suggestively.

“If this is well-behaved, I’m curious to see what ill-mannered looks like to a southerner.”

Trevelyan bit down on his lower lip, and narrowed his eyes at Dorian, before lifting his hand off Dorian’s ass and bringing it down in a loud slap. The sting sent shockwaves through Dorian’s body, and his cock jerked violently underneath him. Trevelyan grinned at him, waiting for a response.

“Is that the best you can do?” Dorian replied. 

Trevelyan growled lowly, pleased with his response, before grabbing Dorian and flipping him over onto his back in a smooth, swift motion. Dorian laughed, a dark, deep noise. 

“Going to ravage me now?” 

“No,” Trevelyan started, chewing down Dorian’s neck, all teeth and tongue and furious lips, moving in a maddening rhythm, his hand stuffed in between Dorian’s legs, running his hands over Dorian’s cock, thrusting his hips forward against Dorian’s. “I want to see just how much my barbarism has affected you.”

“Mhmmm,” Dorian purred, as Trevelyan worked his mouth across Dorian’s chest, nipping and sucking at every inch of Dorian’s skin. “And here I was, hoping you’d throw me over your shoulder, pull my hair, fuck me senseless.”

“Is this a trick?” Trevelyan asked, suddenly stopping. “I thought I was to never touch your hair?”

“I’m in a rare mood. Take advantage, while you can.”

Trevelyan slid back up to Dorian’s face, and raised a hand tentatively above Dorian’s forehead, his fingers poised, ready to slide through Dorian’s hair at a moment’s notice.

“This is your last chance to turn back,” Trevelyan said ominously. Dorian raised his eyebrows gently, and Trevelyan’s hand slid through his hair, caressing his scalp with the lightest pressure of his fingertips. 

“I will live to regret this,” Dorian muttered, as he felt Trevelyan’s fingers begin to twist themselves in his locks, pulling just enough to exert control, but not enough to cause pain.

“I certainly hope not,” Trevelyan said, as he leaned down and kissed Dorian, his tongue plunging into Dorian’s mouth, instantaneously igniting Dorian in furious passion. Dorian caught his lips and kissed back fiercely, his tongue fighting Trevelyan’s for dominance as Trevelyan’s hand freed itself from Dorian’s head and trailed itself down his body, grasping at Dorian’s cock. Dorian’s hand followed the same trail, taking Trevelyan and stroking at him furiously. Trevelyan loosed a moan that escaped from the corners of his lips, and Dorian leaned forward to make sure that Trevelyan’s lips would not leave his.

Trevelyan double down on his own technique, twisting ever so slightly as he slid his hand up and down Dorian’s shaft, and Dorian’s hips rolled in response. Trevelyan’s joined him in their profane dance, their hips moving against one another in a primal, innate rhythm. 

Trevelyan began to slide down, his lips and teeth dragging across Dorian’s chest, his tongue circling Dorian’s nipples before sucking down, as Dorian’s back arched in pleasure and moans escaped his lips. Trevelyan responded in low grunts, his hand tightening further around Dorian’s cock, as Dorian’s hands would themselves in Trevelyan’s hair, pushing him further down. 

Trevelyan defied him, continuing his descent at his own pace, licking and biting at Dorian’s stomach, as Dorian gasped, his body jerking in response to Trevelyan’s mouth. Trevelyan continued to slide up and down Dorian’s cock, his hands pumping Dorian’s cock at a continuous, merciless pace. He edged ever closer with each passing swipe of his tongue, until he was kissing down the trail that lead from Dorian’s belly button, down further, until his head hovered directly above Dorian’s cock. He licked his lips slowly.

“Suck it,” Dorian commanded. Trevelyan chuckled.

“I _have_ turned you into a barbarian.”

His head bowed down, and he took the head of Dorian’s cock into his mouth, sucking readily, as he slowly bobbed up and down, deeper with each bob of his head. Dorian felt his hips begin to rock forward, and Trevelyan responded in kind, his eyes gazing up at Dorian, taunting him. Dorian’s hand reached for the back of Trevelyan’s head, and pushed it down further. Trevelyan was pliant; he followed Dorian’s lead, taking all of him into his mouth, sucking desperately at Dorian’s cock. 

Dorian, for his part, cursed loudly as his head rolled back, eyes glued shut, savoring each bob of Trevelyan’s head, as he pushed down, his hand stretched over the back of Trevelyan’s head, his fingers digging it to his scalp even more aggressively as his body shook with pleasure.

“ _Kaffas._ I’ve changed my mind. I’ll be doing the ravaging this evening,” 

Trevelyan pulled his mouth away from Dorian’s cock, which twitched at the cool night air. “Hmmm,” he purred, as his mouth traveled down Dorian’s thighs, kissing and biting, sinking his teeth into the tight flesh. He licked his way back up Dorian’s thighs, and slid his body back up to kiss Dorian’s lips. Dorian busied himself with teasing Trevelyan’s hole with his fingers, sinking them into his cheeks. Trevelyan’s hips rocked back, eager for the contact. 

“Move,” Dorian commanded, pulling at Trevelyan’s thighs, and Trevelyan smiled, rotating his body, until his ass hovered above Dorian’s face. Dorian grabbed Trevelyan’s hips, and closed the distance, his tongue eagerly sliding into Trevelyan’s hole. 

Trevelyan moaned lowly, and leaned back, finding Dorian’s face a quite comfortable seat. Dorian nipped at Trevelyan’s cheeks, desperately trying to catch his breath through his nose, but too preoccupied by Trevelyan’s hole to manage. Dorian felt his cock throbbing in between his legs, eager for the chance to get into Trevelyan. 

_No. He ought to enjoy this._

Dorian continued to pull Trevelyan closer, as Trevelyan slipped forward and grabbed Dorian’s legs, pulling them back, and sliding his tongue across Dorian’s hole. 

Dorian’s resolve began to waver, as Trevelyan continued to lick and suck. If he kept going, well, it would be Dorian on his knees, begging for Trevelyan to push just a bit deeper, to fuck him a bit harder. 

Dorian reached a hand out for Trevelyan’s pack, and quickly made his way into the small pocket that had been reserved for the vial of oil. Dorian quickly uncorked it, and coated his fingers in the slick substance. He rubbed them gently over Trevelyan’s hole, which glistened with his saliva, before plunging two deep inside of him.

Trevelyan gasped, and his head shot up, his hips lurching forward as Dorian hooked his fingers inside, pressing down on the spot. Trevelyan’s hips continued to buck in synchronicity with Dorian’s fingers. Trevelyan quivered wildly, and Dorian smiled, savoring the pleasure he brought Trevelyan. 

Trevelyan turned his head over his shoulder, his eyes unfocused and dazed. 

“Dick. Now.” 

Dorian may have been responsible for the barbarism this evening, but he wasn’t above taking a good suggestion.

He kept his fingers tucked safely inside of Trevelyan, watching as he twitched like some sort of puppet, clutching the sheets as he muffled his moaning with the crook of his elbow. Dorian slid out from underneath him, reaching for the oil. He slathered his cock with a generous amount: Trevelyan would need it.

He gave Trevelyan a couple more taps, which generated a lovely, loud yell, before removing his fingers, and replacing them with the tip of his cock pressed up against Trevelyan’s hole. It would be all too simple to slip inside, but Dorian wasn’t quite done.

“Tell me you want it,” Dorian ordered, pushing just a little further. 

“Stop toying around,” Trevelyan growled back. He began to push back against Dorian’s cock, and Dorian watched the tip disappear inside of him. It was glorious, the warm, slick tautness of Trevelyan wrapping around him once more. Trevelyan was right. There was no point in extending the charade any longer, when all Dorian wanted was to bury himself inside of Trevelyan. Dorian slid forward into him, and Trevelyan’s arms shook as he tried to support himself. Dorian wrapped his hands around Trevelyan’s waist, and leaned forward, pressing his lips to Trevelyan’s ear.

“Are you ready?” Dorian asked, the words dripping with all the venom of a death threat from a rival Magister. 

“Ravage away,” Trevelyan moaned, as he clenched reflexively around Dorian. _Kaffas._ Dorian rose, and began to thrust into Trevelyan, slowly at first. Trevelyan lowered himself onto his forearms as he moaned. Dorian quickened his pace, his deep, staccato thrusts driving into Trevelyan.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Trevelyan gasped, as Dorian moved faster, driving ever inch of himself into Trevelyan, the sounds of his hips smacking violently into Trevelyan’s ass echoing around the room, the noise followed by the sound of Trevelyan’s cock slapping into his stomach. Dorian reached a hand down, and rubbed Trevelyan’s cock in tandem with his thrusts, as Trevelyan shouted his approval. His other hand slapped at Trevelyan’s ass, Dorian delighting in the pink blush that spread across his cheeks, Trevelyan humming his approval with each stroke of Dorian’s palm against his backside. 

“Harder,” Trevelyan sputtered, his lower back arching to give Dorian better access. Dorian watched as his cock filled Trevelyan completely. Dorian’s hands reached forward, latching on to Trevelyan’s shoulders. Trevelyan dropped his chest to the ground, and Dorian leaned into him. His paced slowed slightly, as he dipped as far as he could into Trevelyan. Trevelyan reached back, and began to stroke his cock, but stopped rather suddenly, shifting instead to his ass, spreading his cheeks further apart, desperate to give Dorian even more leverage.

Dorian wrapped his arm around Trevelyan’s chest, and pulled him back against his own, slowing his pace to gently thrusts. 

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum, Amatus_ ,” Dorian whispered, his hands reached across Trevelyan’s chest and pinching at his nipple, as the other hand stroked at Trevelyan’s cock. 

“You have me so close,” Trevelyan gasped, as he turned back to kiss Dorian, his upper lip dragging across Dorian’s mustache. His hand grabbed Dorian’s wrist, but Dorian latched on to Trevelyan’s cock. “Stop, or I’ll…” Dorian silenced him with his lips, as he removed his hand from Trevelyan’s chest and grabbed his chin, keeping him twisted back, unable to fight. He began to shudder violently, and tried to protest the inevitable, his legs kicking and his torso fighting back against Dorian’s, but it was all to no avail. Trevelyan began to shout, as Dorian continued to kiss him, muffling the sound. Trevelyan shook one final time, a tremor that almost knocked Dorian off his knees, as he tried desperately to break free. 

Dorian felt Trevelyan’s cock throbbing in his hand, as his fingers were coated in Trevelyan’s seed, which hung in thick ropes as it dripped down onto the sheets. Trevelyan’s hole tightened around Dorian, amplifying the pleasure of each thrust, driving Dorian to madness. Trevelyan had stopped trying to kiss Dorian, and gasped violently into Dorian’s mouth, as Dorian continued to nibble on Trevelyan’s lower lip. 

“ _Stop, please_ ,” Trevelyan gasped, his shoulders heaving, as Dorian continued to stroke his tender cock.

“No,” Dorian stated, matter-of-factly, as Trevelyan whimpered underneath his touch. “I haven’t finished yet.” 

“And you say _I’ll_ be the death of you,” Trevelyan murmured, as he twisted spastically, trying desperately to escape Dorian’s clutches. Dorian chuckled, and pushed Trevelyan forward, turning him on to his side.

“I’m close enough,” Dorian growled. “Finish me.” 

Trevelyan chuckled, and lifted his leg up over Dorian’s shoulder, pulling Dorian closer. “Come on,” Trevelyan beckoned, his hand grasping at Dorian’s cock, pulling it towards him. Dorian felt himself slide into Trevelyan’s hole, and he looked down to watch himself disappear. Trevelyan edged himself closer, pushing himself up against Dorian, and Dorian sighed. Trevelyan’s hand reached up to Dorian’s chest, and Dorian grabbed it, kissing his palm gently.

“ _Amatus_ ,” he purred. 

“My love,” Trevelyan smiled up at him, his hips rolling gently. Dorian grunted, and began to thrust gently, his arm wrapped around Trevelyan’s leg on his chest, the other rubbing Trevelyan’s still swollen cock.

“Mmmph,” Trevelyan murmured, still sensitive to Dorian’s touch, but so eager to please. “I love you,” he sighed quietly. Dorian caught his eye, and saw the warm look plastered on Trevelyan’s face.

He dropped Trevelyan’s leg to his side, and leaned forward, his body resting on top of Trevelyan’s, his hands combing through Trevelyan’s hair, as their lips found each other once more. Trevelyan’s hands worked their way up to Dorian’s head, eagerly sliding through and entangling themselves within Dorian’s ebony locks.

Dorian remembered the Imperium, the quick, nasty fucking that had been all but required, bent over at the waist, desperately trying to reach orgasm as quickly as possible. There was nothing romantic about those times, and Dorian had adapted to his circumstances. A kiss had been a rare treat, in those times. A kiss during coitus? Nigh unimaginable.

But Trevelyan insisted on kissing Dorian, at all times, in all places, whether Dorian was fully clothed or inside of him or underneath him or behind him. 

Dorian couldn’t object, not that he would have, of course. He’d wanted this for so long. Even in the throes of this so-called 'barbarism,' he fell back into the comfort of Trevelyan’s lips. He’d never come like he had, time and time again with Trevelyan, and nothing got him over the finish line quite like Trevelyan’s tongue running along the inside of his mouth.

Dorian felt the beads of sweat on his brow, and Trevelyan’s skin glowed underneath him, a combination of his orgasm and the delightful strain of taking Dorian’s cock. 

“ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian growled, and Trevelyan responded, pulling his legs back so that Dorian might dive even deeper inside of him. He was right there on the edge, and Trevelyan planted kisses on Dorian’s mouth to coax him over.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” he gasped quietly, grunting as he unleashed inside of Trevelyan. Trevelyan kept a steady hand on Dorian’s shoulder, as Dorian pressed his nose into the side of Trevelyan’s neck, his final, pointed thrusts into Trevelyan tapering off as he was drained completely. With a final push, he finally came to a rest, pressed comfortably into Trevelyan’s side, while Trevelyan’s arms wrapped around him, and gently stroked his back.

“The death of you, you said?” Trevelyan laughed quietly. 

“Mmmph,” Dorian groaned into Trevelyan’s neck. 

“Close enough for tonight, I suppose.” 

Dorian grunted his approval, and debating rolling off of Trevelyan, but he was exceptionally comfortable, so he sunk in further, kissing Trevelyan’s neck.

“Careful, there. I’m ready for round two. I tried to stop you from getting me off too early,” Trevelyan murmured, as tried to plant kisses on the side of Dorian’s head, even though his lips couldn’t quite reach. 

“Just give me a moment. I’m sure I can muster the stamina to lie here while you fuck the fear of the Maker into me.”

Trevelyan’s hands traveled down to Dorian’s ass, and cupped it gently. “Actually, I thought we could talk all about time magic.”

Dorian turned his head and stared at Trevelyan as though he’d sprouted another head. Or another Anchor. “Whatever are you on about?” 

“You’d said earlier that you wanted to talk to me about time magic? Did you not remember?”

Dorian stared at Trevelyan with a brow raised, paging through the memories of the events of the day. Of course, there was the excitement of finding out that Corypheus had been using the Calling as a way to manipulate the Wardens into his hands, taking control of the Warden mages through their shared connection to the Blight. And of course, Hawke, who’d greeted him with the requisite knowing grin, which he would have loved to wipe off her face with a well-placed fireball, but that had…

_Oh!_

“Forgive my lapse of memory,” Dorian laughed, “and forgive me for boring you to tears, in advance.”

“Oh, come now. I’m sure it will be very…” Trevelyan looked for a word that wouldn’t be outright insulting, “… enlightening.”

Dorian smirked, and pulled himself off of Trevelyan, helping to pull Trevelyan up, so they might slide back to the right side of the bed. Dorian leaned back, resting on the pillow, and Trevelyan curled up alongside him, his leg crossing over Dorian’s, his arm wrapped over Dorian’s chest. He nuzzled in Dorian’s shoulder, planting a barrage of pecks on Dorian’s moist skin, before turning up to lock eyes. Trevelyan’s eyelids crinkled in the corners, the warm look that still managed to make the butterflies rise within Dorian’s chest. 

_Are you truly that desperate to leave that look behind?_

Dorian shook the thought from his head, and smiled back. 

“Tell me you love me,” Dorian beckoned. 

“Oh, come now. I’m willing to listen to a lecture on the mechanics of temporal manipulation of the Fade,” Trevelyan breathed the words in mock reverence. “If you only knew how much attention I paid during my lessons in the Circle, you would understand how very much this gesture means.”

“As much as I may enjoy teasing you, I’m not looking to torture you. Not yet, at least.” 

“It’s absolutely fine,” Trevelyan reassured him, rubbing his hand along Dorian’s side. “It’s been too long since I’ve had a proper lecture on advanced magical theory.”

“Certainly not from that Witch of the Wilds,” Dorian scoffed. He would have gasped, or smacked himself in the mouth for his less-than-subtle admission of his feelings towards Morrigan, but that would only have made his distaste more obvious, and that just would not do. 

“Hm? Jealous, are we?” Trevelyan giggled. Dorian sighed, and rolled his eyes. 

“Hardly. She possesses nothing I desire. I’m impossibly handsome, impeccably dressed, and exceptionally charming.”

“Hmmmm,” Trevelyan murmured from the back of his throat, his hand sliding down between Dorian’s legs, grabbing his cock and tugging at it gently. “She doesn’t have anything I’m interested in, believe me.” Dorian turned to look at him, and Trevelyan leaned forward to kiss him. He continued to run his hand along Dorian’s cock, grabbing his balls as he squeezed them ever so lightly. “I love you.”

“Right, then,” Dorian frowned, and Trevelyan pursed his lips. “I love you too, _Amatus._ ”

“Good. Now then, educate the poor, unrefined southerner. Just, please… don’t get mad at me if I ask too many questions.” 

Dorian smiled. Of course, Trevelyan would have much preferred spending his time rolling around on the mattress, kissing Dorian, or talking about the events of the day. All things considered, both of those were perfectly understandable desires. But Dorian, for whatever reason, needed to expound upon his achievement. Maybe it was because he was lying naked in bed with the man who’d already made his mark upon the world – and what a mark it was! – that made Dorian feel a tad bit smaller.

It wasn’t Trevelyan’s fault, naturally. Trevelyan was more than happy to inflate Dorian’s ego, to remind him how wonderful and appreciated he was. Trevelyan had the innate gift of looking inside of someone and seeing what it was that they needed, and he gave it to them. It worked wonderfully, of course, even if it gave the impression that Trevelyan was more concerned with being everyone’s friend than being the person who took hard stances, regardless of what anyone might think. 

But maybe that was Trevelyan’s purpose: to unite, not divide. To be kind, instead of stoic. To win allies and make friends, instead of grabbing for power and building his own empire. 

Maybe that’s why they needed a Herald, and not an Empress, or an Arl, or a Magister. Maybe that’s why the Maker sent Trevelyan, even if Trevelyan would never believe that to be true.

Dorian did. He always had. 

“How do these tales generally begin?” Dorian asked. “The ones where Magisters decide to research magic that could very well destroy the world?”

“’It was a dark and stormy night’?” Trevelyan ventured. Dorian laughed.

“As good a start as any, I suppose.”

___

 

“Hawke and Stroud are going to send word once they’ve arrived at Adamant?” Blackwall asked, as they waited for their mounts to arrive. 

“Yes. We need to hurry back to Skyhold at once. Hopefully, word from Hawke will reach Leliana before we arrive, so they can begin to plan. I sent three ravens this morning alone.”

It was true. Trevelyan had woken up, rolled on top of Dorian, and kissed him into submission. Before Dorian knew it, Trevelyan was knuckle deep inside of him, and he was pleading with Trevelyan for his cock. Luckily, Trevelyan was a merciful man, as he sunk himself deep inside of Dorian, thrusting until Dorian came all over himself. Trevelyan followed suit shortly thereafter.

They’d finished, Trevelyan having licked every drop of Dorian off his stomach and his chest, before pulling him in for a final flurry of slow, passionate kisses. They emerged from underneath the covers, dressed quickly, and made their way out onto the Keep. They found breakfast rather quickly, and Trevelyan busied himself scrawling missives to Leliana about Wardens and Corypheus and Adamant and siege weaponry. 

“Do we know if Cullen has a battering ram?” He’d asked the air. Blackwall nearly choked on his drink, and Varric chuckled quietly. 

“Not that I’m aware of, Inquisitor,” Cassandra replied.

“Hm,” he’d murmured, and bowed his head back down to the paper in front of him.

Their mounts had arrived. Dorian had finally managed to wear Dennett down, over the course of the past several months, and the horsemaster had finally acquired several Imperial Warmbloods for the Inquisition’s stables. On all their journeys, he’d taken the same beautiful stallion each time. Dorian had named him Faustus, a name which Dennett was loathe to adopt, considering its origins, but had ultimately acquiesced. On days when Dorian felt the need to wander the grounds and breathe the fresh mountain air, he would slip through the kitchen to grab an apple for his steed. He was positive that was the only reason Faustus had taken a shine to him, but he had absolutely no problem with a bit of bribery to help cement their positive working relationship. Maybe he ought to try bringing an apple to Blackwall: the man was clearly limited to the facilities of a beast of burden, and nothing more. 

Trevelyan, had, of course chosen a Marcher Ranger, a simple, dusty brown stallion of his own with a delightful, pleasant temperament. Dorian was almost convinced that somewhere in its lineage, the horse’s ancestors had been bred with a dog. When it caught sight of Trevelyan, it trotted excitedly to his side, and circled around him, prancing as though it wanted Trevelyan to play a game of fetch.

Funnily enough, Dorian had noticed that his mount hardly cared for Trevelyan’s. Two stallions rarely agreed with one another, but Faustus and Trevelyan’s steed hadn’t gotten into a physical altercation. Not yet, at least. Dorian had assumed it was only because Faustus understood the pecking order – the rider of the horse that he so disliked was the human in charge, after all – and stopped short of kicking Trevelyan’s mount square in the jaw. 

Either way, when Trevelyan trotted up alongside Dorian, his horse would lean over to sniff at Faustus, and Faustus would begin to turn away in spite of Dorian’s attempts to keep his horse in line. As irritating as it was to find himself being carried away from Trevelyan on the back of his disobedient mount, Dorian had to admire its willful nature. If he didn’t, well, he’d just be another hypocrite, and damned if he’d affix another label on his lapel for the nobles of southern Thedas to sneer at.

Even though their sneers had subdued. The soft, golden glow that surrounded the Inquisitor had spread to him, by proximity, and while it didn’t quite outshine the brand that his homeland had left upon him, it had certainly softened it. “The Tevinter” no longer carried the same vitriol it had all those months ago, and Dorian was pleased with the development. Even more so, he was pleased that Trevelyan’s shimmer was so close, naked and pressed against him and moaning his name under the covers of his bed. 

If only he and Trevelyan could remain under those covers, tucked in the darkness, blind to the outside world. Alas, reality would never be so kind as to allow them that pleasure.

Dorian positioned his foot in the stirrup, and eased himself up, carefully swinging his leg over Faustus’ back and onto his saddle. He situated himself, and rubbed a hand gently along Faustus’ neck. 

“I ought to brush your mane out when we return to Skyhold. I don’t think Dennet’s been giving your coat the proper care,” Dorian murmured quietly. The horse flicked its ears back lazily, as if he were too exasperated to acknowledge the truth. Dorian had reminded Dennet that this particular breed required extra care and maintenance – a stark, white coat always did – and that they needed to be brushed regularly. The horsemaster, of course, had little patience for Dorian’s advice, nor should he have. Dorian could only imagine how he would feel if some pampered Orlesian mage tried to correct his technique. 

Solas had tried to question Dorian’s casting once, noting that Dorian’s flair for the dramatic burned through his reserves rather quickly. Dorian had quickly reminded him that they were his own reserves to be concerned with. Should his enemies not experience one moment of elegance and flair before they were ultimately destroyed by his superior skill? Any of his foes deserved that kindness.

Thankfully, Vivienne seemed to appreciate his élan, and they shared a tacit understanding that the battlefield was a place where they were obligated to outdo one another. She’s summon her spectral blade and vanish, before appearing between the severed halves of a demon she’d materialized through, without so much as a spot on her robes, and Dorian would respond with the simple elegance of a hand reaching forward, imprinting on an enemy, just as his Walking Bomb had ripped through it, its corpse falling away in chunks as a bright, violet husk of his former foe stepped forth from the detritus. 

They’d finally managed to reach a position of mutual respect – after the death of her lover, Duke Bastien, he’d attempted to offer a simple apology. She’d nearly bitten his head off in the process, but ultimately had accepted his sympathy graciously. Her face was still frozen like a statute, but with the tiniest cracks. It was the closest her visage had ever come to displaying actual emotion, and his heart swelled ever so slightly seeing the beating heart behind the suit of iron she wore.

Maybe it had been a selfish sort of sympathy. The passing of Duke Bastien – in spite of Trevelyan’s monumental efforts to acquire the heart of a Snowy Wyvern – had made Dorian consider the mortality of his own lover. How much longer could he hope to keep Trevelyan around? In stories like this, the hero always died, consumed by the power that he’d acquired, or by the very world that he’d saved. The Herald of Andraste’s namesake hadn’t made it very far in the world, after all, before being captured and burned at the stake. 

Try as Vivienne did, there was no way to escape the inexorable fate that all men must face. No potion could protect man from the grip of death, once it had decided to extend its hand forward. It was the tie that bound every mortal together: the great equalizer. None could avoid it, save for the ancient elves of Arlathan, and whatever secrets they might have known that had prolonged their lifespans had been lost to the ages when their empire fell to the Imperium. 

If only something had survived, that he might be able to keep Trevelyan out of the reach of the reaper for long enough to make it to the end of Dorian’s days, that they might live their lives together, even if they were apart. If only they could have an ounce of normalcy in a world on fire.

“Ready?” Trevelyan asked, turning to the group. They all nodded in response. “Alright, then.” His horse began to trot, and picked quickly up to a respectable canter. “We have to make haste,” Trevelyan shouted over the sound of the horses trotting along the path. 

They galloped off in the light of morning, the cool morning air whipping past them as they darted across the wasteland. Silly, almost, since they’d be returning in but a few weeks’ time, to lead the Inquisition’s forces against the Grey Wardens at Adamant. 

Dorian felt a shadow lurking in the back of his mind, the sound of dark laughter echoing in the distance. He shook it off as a trick of his paranoia, and the dark thoughts that had plagued him earlier that day. 

Trevelyan would succeed. Everything would be fine.

___

 

“So it’s working now?” 

“Yes, and we ought to hurry. Can’t have the show starting without us.”

Trevelyan practically dragged Dorian across the Main Hall, their hands interwoven as he led the pair of them up to Leliana’s Rookery. They had just finished their dinner, surrounded by a group of Ferelden nobles who must have been taught table manners by their mabari, when one of Leliana’s agents had appeared behind Trevelyan. He had leaned into Trevelyan’s ear, and whispered behind an open palm to inform him of this most recent development: the dwarven memory crystal had been planted in Calpernia’s camp, and now, they were ready to watch the fruits of their labor. Trevelyan had been in a bit of a mood that day, and the company certainly wasn’t helping: Dorian had nearly jolted him with a quick bolt from across the table as his head rested lazily on his hand, his eyelids half shut with exhaustion. He was more than happy to take any excuse to leave the table, and he politely bade his audience good evening, possibly a little too curtly. 

They rounded the stairs up to the Rookery, and caught sight of Leliana seated near the device, the blue light of the crystal floating inside of the steel cage that housed it. Cullen leaned over the desk, staring at it.

“It’s almost the exact color of lyrium,” he whispered, staring hungrily at the light. Leliana snapped her fingers at him, and he stepped away from the table, rubbing at his eyes and grunting under his breath. 

“Have we smuggled the other memory crystal into Calpernia’s camp?” Trevelyan asked, possibly attempting to cut the tension.

“We have. Here,” Leliana replied, fiddling with the device as they looked on. An unearthly noise emanated from the orb, as it glowed brightly, two figured appearing within the sphere of light it had created.

“Ugh. Even honey can’t sweeten Felandaris,” Calpernia’s specter announced. 

“I’ll keep trying,” the other figure replied, arms folded dutifully behind her back.

“You are no slave, Linnea. I’ll add another spoonful myself. Later,” Calpernia replied graciously. There was an obviously affection between Calpernia and her underling. It was strange to see the villainous leader of the Venatori as something other than a wicked, one-dimensional character out of one of Varric’s better novels. She cared for her followers. That’s more than any Tevinter he knew would have done. Save for Felix, of course.

Trevelyan looked over at Leliana, his arms folded across his chest. “Calpernia seems to be treating her new acolytes kindly,” he mused.

The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs behind them cause them all to turn, as Cassandra’s figure rose from the stairs to their side. She was breathing heavily. 

“My apologies for my tardiness,” she huffed.

“You haven’t missed anything of import. Just Calpernia talking about herbs and honey,” Cullen replied, his hand scratching at the back of his head.

“While I found that interesting,” Leliana said, as she scowled at Cullen, “ _this_ is what you must hear.” She reached a hand out, and delicately tapped a finger, as the air around the crystal distorted once more, three figures entering reality once more – Calpernia, and Corypheus, Samson tagging along at his side.

“Master, forgive me, I didn’t expect –“ Calpernia plead.

“Apologies again, Calpernia?” Samson attempted to goad her, and she sneered viciously at him.

“Enough,” Corypheus commanded, turning his attention fully to Calpernia. “The time for your ascension nears. Tell me of your preparation,” 

“They go well enough, although I’m distracted here. If I could train at the Shrine-“ she began, before Corypheus cut her off again.

“Only Dumat’s faithful may enter,” Corypheus replied, cold and calmly, as though he’d made exactly this response to her entreaty before. 

“But Samson –“ she began. 

“Has proven himself worthy to guard the Shrine.” Samson stood beside Corypheus, a crooked smile plastered on his hollow, pale face, obviously pleased with the favoritism that Corypheus was showing him. “Continue as before… or would you see the Imperium’s rebirth stalled by your lack of focus?”

“I will be ready. As the Vessel, and Tevinter’s Champion,” she replied proudly, as Corypheus glided eerily away. Samson lingered for a moment, his twisted grin taunting her. 

“Don’t worry. If you fail, I’ll be here to catch you,” Samson said.

“With a sword in my gut, I’m sure,” she replied. 

“Samson!” Corypheus’ voice called out from beyond. Samson turned, but not before one final jab.

“See you at the Shrine. Or not,” he chortled, as he disappeared from view. Calpernia balled her fists at her sides, before turning angrily toward the group of them, watching her from beyond. 

“Another deflection,” Calpernia cursed underneath her breath, “and… why, a dwarven bauble. As if mine was miraculously returned to me!” She stared directly into the crystal, holding it in her palm. Her eyes wandered up, as though she were looking straight at Trevelyan. He did not flinch. “Let’s give your new owner a glimpse of his fate. Venatori! We leave!”

Her hand clenched around the crystal, as she crushed it in her palm, the glowing blue reflection of her figure instantly dissipating into the air of the Rookery. 

“That’s it?” Dorian wondered aloud. _What a waste_ , he thought. _A priceless relic destroyed, all because we needed to watch the sibling rivalry bubble between Calpernia and Samson._

“That is all the crystal recorded before she found it,” Leliana said, ignoring Dorian’s arched eyebrow. “But I think it may be enough. A Shrine to Dumat, Corypheus said. Where Calpernia is forbidden to go.”

“But one to which Samson has access. I wonder what Corypheus is hiding from Calpernia?” Cullen said, his thumb stroking his chin.

“Dumat was the first Archdemon. Perhaps it is something related to the Blights?” Cassandra offered. 

“Probably not,” Dorian replied. “The Shrine was likely built before that whole punching a hole through the Veil to wander the halls of the Golden City business.” Cassandra nodded in agreement.

“Either way, Corypheus will be on guard once Calpernia tells him we were listening,” Trevelyan said, irked by the development. 

“I wonder,” Leliana said, her voice tinged with a playful curiosity. “She may wish to see what we do, first. She must realize he is hiding something from her.”

“And with Samson nipping at her heels, I’m sure she’s loath to give Corypheus any reason to shine any more favor upon him,” Cullen interjected. “Admitting that the Inquisition had managed to sneak into her camp undetected would assuredly tip the scales further towards Samson.”

“That’s true,” Leliana replied. “Let us investigate this Shrine – carefully. I doubt Corypheus has left it unguarded.” 

“Alright. I assume we have enough people to spare to find this Shrine of Dumat? Adamant is by far the more pressing issue, but whatever we might find at the Shrine could prove to be invaluable.”

“I’ll have my agents look into it,” Leliana offered. “That way, the Commander’s troops will not be distracted from the task at hand.” 

“Alright, then. Is there anything else that requires my attention today?”

“I have nothing more,” Leliana said.

“Get some rest, Inquisitor. It’s going to be a trying journey, I’m sure,” Cullen offered. 

They’d spent the better part of the past two days locked inside the War Room, strategizing. Dorian had not been invited, thankfully: his expertise did not include sieges on ancient Fortresses that had stood for hundreds of years. Blackwall and Cassandra had managed their way into the War Room, and Solas had spent an hour or two behind its doors. Apparently, Trevelyan was intent on dragging the mages and the Templars to the fight – at least, those among the two groups who wanted to join them – and he was of the belief that Solas had witnessed enough battles in the Fade that he might have some opinions on how best to utilize the mages’ talents to break through the front lines of Adamant’s defenses. 

“Aren’t they always?” Trevelyan chuckled, unamused. “If – when – we defeat Corypheus, I demand some vacation time.”

“You may want to put in that request now,” Leliana smiled. “I’m almost certain Josephine has a list of nobles who’ve requested audiences immediately following your victory.” 

“Ugh,” Trevelyan muttered, rolling his eyes. “There’s already a waiting list to congratulate me?”

“The people have faith in you,” Cassandra added pleasantly. “Quite a change from when we first declared the Inquisition, but a welcome one, I should think.”

“If I have to suffer through it, you will be suffering right alongside me, Seeker,” Trevelyan deadpanned, staring at her. She chuckled.

“When we win, I will be more than happy to do so.”

Trevelyan groaned, and wiped his hand down his face in an exaggerated motion. “I need to learn how to threaten people more effectively. Dorian? You’re from Tevinter. I’m sure you have some advice.”

“Now, _Amatus_ , I’ve just managed to turn ‘Tevinter’ from a swear word into a mild insult. Shall we not undo all my hard work?”

Trevelyan smirked at him. “Damn. Whatever happened to being the band of heretic rebel upstarts?” He turned to the group.

“It appears those days are long gone,” Cullen said.

“It was more fun when we were the pariahs,” Trevelyan laughed. “Let everyone know we’ll be meeting in the War Room tomorrow morning to discuss the plan. If that’s all?” Trevelyan asked once again, before leading the group down from the Rookery. They made their way toward the Main Hall, and Trevelyan stopped.

“Now, I need you to do me a favor,” Trevelyan whispered to Dorian. Dorian frowned.

“What now?” Dorian asked. 

“I need you to drag me across the Main Hall. Talk a bunch at your usual pace, as though you see nothing and no one.”

“Trying to avoid Josephine dragging you into an hours-long conversation with some windbag noble?” Dorian asked. 

Cassandra muttered an, ‘ugh’ behind them.

“Yes. That dinner was particularly trying. I’ve been entertaining nobles since Halamshiral, but I just need one night where I’m not forced to debate the merits of Orlesian theatre or the structure of Fereldan government as though I have any real opinion on the matter.”

Trevelyan was desperate. Clearly. Dorian’s eyes narrowed, before he turned his head, sighing. 

“Fine. I will bear the brunt of Josephine’s ire, as per usual.”

“I will find a way to repay you. A million ways to repay you.”

Dorian pushed past Trevelyan gently, and opened the door to the Main Hall. He looked out, and saw Josephine, staring intently at the door. She waved over to Dorian, who turned back, grabbing Trevelyan’s shoulder, shoving him into the Main Hall. Dorian cleared his throat, and took a deep breath.

“Per your instructions, _Lord Inquisitor_ ,” Dorian started in loudly, shoving Trevelyan across the Main Hall as he marched behind him. “I am helping you to avoid any further discussions with your advisors, and dragging you to your chambers, as your rest is so very important to the success of the Inquisition.” Dorian could practically feel Trevelyan melting into his hands, as Dorian continued to slide him towards the door to his tower. 

Josephine, for her part, looked on, somewhat confused, until the realization of what was occurring dawned upon her, at which point her brow furrowed, and her lips curled in displeasure. Dorian would have loved to see the look on Trevelyan’s face, but he was sure enough shock and horror would be lingering once he’d shoved him through the door.

“It is my estimation that this distraction has been perfectly successful, and that you’ll be able to enjoy your evening in peace.”

Trevelyan’s hand reached out for the door in front of him, and Dorian pushed him clean on through. Trevelyan finally dug his heels in to a stop, and Dorian quickly shut the door behind them. Trevelyan turned around, his face frozen in fear.

“She’s going to kill me, you know? I hope you like sleeping alone.”

“I always said you’d die trying to save the world, but I never imagined it would be by Josephine’s hand. What an ironic twist.”

Trevelyan sighed, muttering to himself absentmindedly. “Well, thank the Maker her name isn’t on the short list for the next Divine.”

“And here I was, thinking you’d be annoyed that I’d taken some liberties in helping you shirk your Inquisitorial responsibilities.”

“Oh, I’m plenty annoyed at myself for not further clarifying the method by which I would have liked you to take care of this particular matter. I should know better by now.” Trevelyan grabbed for the back of his neck, and rubbed it gently. “It’s not like you make being Inquisitor that much harder.” Trevelyan’s hand dropped unceremoniously to his side, and he turned to walk up the stairs to his room. “Come on. You left that book on my nightstand…”

“After you pried it out of my hands!”

“Hey, you enjoyed everything that happened after that,” Trevelyan shouted over his shoulder as he lumbered up the stairs. Dorian rolled his eyes, unable to formulate an argument, mostly because Trevelyan was infuriatingly right. Trevelyan had spent a long, excruciatingly delightful time with his face buried in Dorian’s ass. The only tension that had remained within Dorian’s body after Trevelyan had worked him over was in his toes, which he hadn’t quite been able to uncurl since the night prior. 

Dorian followed after Trevelyan, who was several steps ahead of him. He shot a small spark at Trevelyan’s ass, and watched as his leg gave out slightly underneath him, twitching in protest.

“Oh, you’re going to pay for that,” Trevelyan turned around, grinning in spite of his threatening tone.

“You owe me a favor, as I recall,” Dorian replied, snaking up alongside Trevelyan and passing him gracefully on the stairs. “I get to read at least one chapter before you get your hands on me.”

“Done,” Trevelyan replied, speeding up the stairs to catch up with Dorian. 

“That was easier than I thought it would be. Too bad choosing the next Divine won’t be so simple. Another body you've placed on a throne. How many does that make now? Three?”

Trevelyan stopped on the stairs. “Maker, Dorian!”

“What?” Dorian asked, turning around, puzzled by Trevelyan’s reaction.

“Really twisting the knife this evening, aren’t you?” Trevelyan said, his eyebrows arching in displeasure, his voice laced with frustration.

Dorian paused for a moment. “I apologize if I’ve been a little harsh.”

Trevelyan exhaled. “Thank you. I’m probably being overly sensitive.”

“Imagine that,” Dorian chuckled.

“Not helping.”

“Sorry.”

“We saved King Alistair and Queen Anora from the Venatori. We saved Celene from an assassination attempt. And now, I have the privilege of deciding whether or not I’d prefer addressing Cassandra or Leliana as ‘Your Perfection.’”

“You are utterly baffling,” Dorian sighed.

“How so?”

“Both Ferelden and Orlais are in your debt, and you are placing a trusted friend on the Sunburst Throne: a position many would outright kill to find themselves in. Yet you continue to eschew the burden of having so many people owe you so many favors.”

Trevelyan froze again, and looked down at his hand. Dorian turned, and saw Trevelyan’s eyes locked on the Anchor, its subdued glow reflected in the emerald pools of his irises.

“Am I supposed to acclimate to this? Lean back on the throne in the main hall, glass of wine in my hand, as I lord over my followers? All of this,” Trevelyan waved is hand, the green glow lingering in the air like some sort of visible echo “is absolutely horrifying. I understand how important gathering favors and influence is for the Inquisition proper. I just… I want to do the right thing.”

“And you have, _Amatus_. You’ve handled yourself with integrity and honor,” Dorian leaned down to grab Trevelyan’s hand in his own, rubbing his thumb over the Anchor, feeling the rush of its power coursing into his forearm like electricity. “That you’ve made it thus far without falling victim to the corruption that would have plagued a lesser man is another miracle you can add to your pile.”

“They aren’t my miracles,” Trevelyan huffed, breaking contact with Dorian’s hand, and edging past him, continuing his march up the stairs. “They’re just a bunch of ridiculous circumstances, misfired spells, well-placed mine shafts.”

“Yes, but the confluence of all of those random occurrences is you. Is it that unfathomable that…”

“This is not the work of the Maker, Dorian,” Trevelyan turned around, his face calm but stern. “Who am I that I should have any say in who ends up leading his faithful masses?”

Dorian stopped, and furrowed his brow. “Are you quite sure that you aren’t upset about me pushing you across the floor of the Main Hall?”

“No,” Trevelyan sighed, knitting his brow and swiping his hand across his forehead. “I just… let’s just go upstairs and relax. I just need sleep. It’s been a long day.”

“That’s hardly the issue,” Dorian started, “You’re avoiding addressing the problem.”

“Oh, because you’ve never attempted to deflect attention from a serious conversation.”

“So you _are_ angry with me.”

“I’m not!” Trevelyan shouted. His eyes widened at the volume of his own voice, and he turned his head away, his eyes shut tightly, as he tried to catch his breath and calm himself.

“Would you like me to spend the night in my own chambers?” Dorian asked, somewhere between plaintive and defiant, arms crossed over his chest.

“No,” Trevelyan breathed quickly, “No. Not at all.” He opened his eyes, and stared down at Dorian. “I am a little annoyed with the display in the Main Hall. It’s just the conversation about the Divine. I’m sorry. I don’t…” Trevelyan stopped, and caught himself, his lips curled in disappointment. “I’m not going to skirt the discussion.”

“Oh, look. Personal growth, all within the span of a conversation.”

“I can’t be a hypocrite,” Trevelyan muttered, leaning on the bannister, his hand rubbing the short hairs on the back of his head. “The entire talk about the Divine is unnerving, for all the reasons I’ve said. It’s another indication of how much power the Inquisition has accumulated; power that I'm never going to completely comfortable wielding. But, once Leliana or Cassandra is chosen, they will be leaving.”

Trevelyan stared off, his eyes sweeping over the cracks in the wall, the spaces in between all of the bricks, as he chewed on his lower lip absentmindedly. 

“Every step we take toward our goal is one step closer to the Inquisition coming to an end.”

Trevelyan rapped his knuckles against the bannister, and turned, grabbing it with both hands, as he leaned forward, his head dipping down between his shoulders. 

“One step closer until everyone leaves.”

Dorian hadn’t moved, his arms still folded across his chest. He watched Trevelyan roll his shoulders, waiting to see if he’d say anything. Trevelyan remained silent, save for the sounds of his fingers gripping the wood of the railing.

“That’s just the way of things. Life brings people together, and pulls them apart.”

Trevelyan chortled weakly. “Is it so wrong to want to plant my roots somewhere?” He turned back and looked at Dorian. “I should know better than to get comfortable.” 

Dorian sighed, his arms falling to his sides as he stepped toward Trevelyan.

“ _Amatus_ …” Dorian whispered, his hand traveling over Trevelyan’s shoulder, gripping it gently. Trevelyan turned back to him, his eyes clear and calm.

“I’m sorry. Like I said, a little sensitive this evening.” His wan smirk was wholly unconvincing. This wasn’t just sensitive. This was everything that Trevelyan tucked underneath the surface bubbling up. If Trevelyan didn’t loose the pressure, he would most certainly explode. 

“Can we just go upstairs? You can read your book. I won’t bother you, I promise,” Trevelyan carefully rubbed a strap of Dorian’s robe between his fingers, staring down. Dorian’s hand reached up to Trevelyan’s, and grabbed it.

“Of course.” Dorian smiled, and Trevelyan looked up at him, his eyes wide and his smile small, but steady. They turned, and walked up the few remaining stairs to Trevelyan’s chambers. 

They got to the room, and Dorian made immediately to the bottle of wine on Trevelyan’s desk, pouring himself a fresh glass, which he sat on the nightstand on his side of the bed right next to his book. Trevelyan had stepped out on to the balcony, into the cold night air. He leaned on the balcony, staring out at the starry night sky. 

Dorian was unsure, and it made his mind reel with frustration. Uncertainty wasn’t in his wheelhouse of usual emotions. But Trevelyan was standing out on the balcony, and Dorian knew that he was busy trying to dam everything up; to lock it all away and pray that he’d last long enough to defeat Corypheus without it all breaking through and sweeping him away with it.

Dorian took a step toward the balcony, and stopped, his arm quivering slightly at his side, unsure if reaching for Trevelyan or giving him his space was the correct course of action in this moment. 

Dorian turned back to the bed, and began to disrobe. Dorian wouldn’t force Trevelyan to talk. Because the conversation would lead in only one direction: Leliana or Cassandra would be Divine. Varric would return to Kirkwall. Sera would run off to take care of whatever Red Jenny foolery she got roped into. Vivienne would return to being an axe wound in the Winter Palace. And Dorian would return to the Imperium.

Dorian had no intention of breaking Trevelyan’s heart this evening. Nor did he have any intention of breaking his own. They still had time. They would still be together. 

Dorian lied on top of the covers, in nothing but his smallclothes, and he picked up his book, flipping to the last page he’d managed to read, before taking a deep pull of the glass of wine. 

He flicked to the next page, and his eyes looked up to the balcony, where he could just make out Trevelyan’s silhouette beyond the reflection of the room in the glass. He continued reading, occasionally turning his eyes up to the man that hovered beyond the window. He didn’t move. Dorian continued reading, having managed to get through his promised chapter, and Trevelyan still remained on the balcony. Dorian’s eyes lingered for a moment, before turning back to his book. 

He took another sip from his glass, flipping to the next page in his book, when he heard the door to the balcony open and shut quickly. Trevelyan stepped in, his cheeks red and raw, his hair windblown, falling in loose waves that dangled, grazing his shoulders. 

“Trying to catch your death out there?” 

“They’d find a way to revive me, unless the Anchor works posthumously. Then they’d just sever my arm and wave it around at Rifts.”

Dorian turned back to his book. “Imagine that. The Herald of Andraste, killed by a cold.” 

“Hardly dramatic enough, I would think,” Trevelyan sighed.

“Your fate thus far has never been ironic. Don’t worry. I’m sure something terrifying is waiting just around the corner to disembowel you.”

Dorian flipped another page.

“Sometimes I wonder if nothing short of having my head ripped off by a giant will make them stop believing in me.”

Dorian flipped another page. He looked up at Trevelyan.

“Are you that desperate to be proven a false idol? Are you really that eager to prove that the Maker hasn’t turned his gaze back upon Thedas once more?”

Trevelyan fidgeted uncomfortably at the foot of the bed. Dorian sighed.

“Come to bed. You’ll drive yourself mad, and we can’t have that. Not until you’ve elected the new Divine and defeated Corypheus.”

Trevelyan huffed, and Dorian felt a chill travel along his body as he shuddered violently.

“ _Kaffas!_ ” Dorian yelped, staring up at Trevelyan, who stared down at him. He’d magicked just enough of a chill to make Dorian shiver. 

“Ass,” Trevelyan growled.

Dorian crossed a leg over the other as Trevelyan walked to the side of the bed, vanishing underneath his clothes. He grabbed them off the floor and tossed them on to the couch by the stairs, before slipping underneath the covers of the bed. 

“I know you’re still reading, so I’ll leave my candle lit.”

“I’ll be sure to put it out when I’ve finished,” Dorian replied absentmindedly. He looked over at the back of Trevelyan’s head, his face buried in his pillow. Dorian reached a hand out, and ran a hand through Trevelyan’s hair, gently stroking the pieces in between his fingers. 

“I love you, _Amatus_.”

“I know,” Trevelyan murmured, 

Dorian’s hand continued to massage Trevelyan’s head, while he tried to focus on the words in front of him. Trevelyan was breaking up alongside him, and he hadn’t been particularly sympathetic this evening. 

_He didn’t say it back._

Dorian closed his book, and waved his hand around the room, watching the candlelight die down around him. The fire crackled beyond the bed, the dying embers doing little to keep the cold from creeping in. He removed his smallclothes, and slipped underneath the covers.

He rolled over to Trevelyan’s side, and draped an arm across Trevelyan’s shoulder, pulling his chest against Trevelyan’s back. 

“ _Amatus._ ”

Trevelyan rolled his shoulder, pushing Dorian back. 

“Not tonight.”

Dorian recoiled slightly, and Trevelyan turned, his face partially obscured by his wild hair. “I’m just not in the mood.”

“I understand,” Dorian nodded, and rolled back on his side of the bed. He’d prefer Trevelyan magically freezing his body than the chill he felt right now. 

He heard the covers rustle next to him, and felt Trevelyan lean in toward him, his chin grazing Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian turned down to him, and Trevelyan pressed his lips against Dorian’s.

“I love you. Nothing will change that.”

“You say that now,” Dorian replied.

“I always will.”

Dorian felt Trevelyan slip back to his side of the bed. Dorian tilted his eyes sideways, and rolled on to his side, slipping an arm across Trevelyan’s stomach. Trevelyan glanced at Dorian out of the corner of his eye, and picked his arm up so that Dorian could slip into the nook.

“Don’t promise forever,” Dorian said, his palm resting above Trevelyan’s heart. He could feel it beating steadily. 

“Forever, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably should have been two chapters. Oh well.
> 
> I spent a lot of time debating whether I should even give Trevelyan a specific song to sing, or if I should write some words, or if I should just let your imaginations wander. Literally to the very last second as I clicked the "post" button. I'm not sure where I landed - I tend to write these before I make my last-minute edits, so whatever words I had there? Probably deleted. Maybe not! 
> 
> So the weight of Trespasser is kind of barging into to my chapters and coloring the romance a little bit more than I'd like to admit, but I have the path of this all in mind. You will be getting chapters that reference the DLC, and specifically, a very Dorian-centric take on Trespasser, which will be soul-crushing. Sorry.
> 
> Dorian and Trevelyan had a little tiff! It's emblematic of some deeper problems. Dorian is unwilling to confront the issues, Trevelyan is unwilling to push Dorian to confront them because he's afraid of Dorian rejecting him and cutting their time together even shorter, Trevelyan is kind of dying underneath the weight of being Inquisitor, Dorian is sympathetic but hardly empathetic, blah blah blah. 
> 
> Next chapter is the Battle of Adamant! Chapter after that is the Fade (Another "I'm sorry" chapter)! Chapter after that is repercussions ("I'm sorry/You're welcome")!
> 
> Thank you all so much for all the love you have shown me. Bolstered by all your kind words, I recently showed a close friend of mine the first chapter, and he was also very complimentary, and it was a really big moment and it made me feel really great - like maybe I'm not that hack who wrote Hard in Hightown 3: The Re-Punchening. 
> 
> XOXO. LEAVE COMMENTS. I like talking with you all.


	25. The Siege of Adamant

Dorian leaned on the bannister of the balcony overlooking the Main Hall, glass of wine in hand. Vivienne stood alongside him, smiling down at the smattering of nobles, Inquisition soldiers, and Templars gathered below. Ser Barris stood before the Inquisitor’s throne, Trevelyan seated neatly on the blood red leather, his hair pulled back into a taut ponytail, sleek and smooth, in honor of the occasion. 

“Knight-Templar Delrin Barris. We have gathered to review your military service to the Inquisition,” Cullen said. “You showed exceptional valor defending the people of Val Colline from Venatori, and broke a siege of demons in Ansburg. You stood against an entire town that wanted to kill a mage for imagined demonic possession. _Without_ raising a sword.”

Trevelyan smiled broadly, and leaned forward on his throne, resting a hand on his knee. 

“In thanks for your service, and your help at Therinfal Redoubt, I endorse your promotion to Knight-Commander of the Templar Order.”

The Main Hall erupted into ‘ _oohs_ ’ and ‘ _ahs_ ’.

“Well, my dear Vivienne, it appears as though the Templar Order lives to see another day,” Dorian clinked her glass, and took a sip of his own. Vivienne stood, arms folded.

“The Inquisitor is far too wise to disband the order. He’s seen what a world without Templars produces; he sleeps with it every evening,” Vivienne purred, a not-so-subtle barb. Dorian smiled.

“Oh, I so adore our little chats,” Dorian laughed.

“As do I, my dear.” They turned back to the Inquisitor.

“Your Worship. I… I am not worthy,” Barris protested, falling to one knee before Trevelyan. 

Trevelyan waved his hand, as if insisting that Barris need not prostrate himself before the Inquisitor. “You’ve shown loyalty, determination, courage… as all Templars should.”

“I will honor your faith in me.”

Trevelyan gazed out over the hall, catching the eyes of the present Templar soldiers. “Templars: will you take Ser Barris as your Knight-Commander?”

The Templars bowed, grunting their approval at the appointment. The hall erupted into cheers, and the Templars moved forward, shaking Barris’ hand, clapping him on his shoulder, as he smiled solemnly. 

“He understands the weight of his responsibility. Restoring the honor of the Templar Order will prove to be no small feat,” Vivienne proclaimed, moving back to her chaise by the glass door to the balcony. “Trevelyan must see something of himself in Barris, burdened as he is by his position.”

Dorian lingered at the balcony, watching as Trevelyan rose from his seat and walked over to Barris. Barris bowed respectfully, and Trevelyan returned the gesture, clasping their forearms in a gesture of mutual respect. A small elven figure maneuvered through all the men and women in armor, approaching the Inquisitor and the newly minted Knight Commander. Fiona.

Dorian motioned for Vivienne to join him, and he heard the clicking of her heels behind him. 

“What now?” she asked, her eyes following his down to the ruckus below.

“I wonder what Fiona’s trying to do?”

The elf carefully stepped forward, and Trevelyan saw her out the corner of his eye. He turned to greet her, and she bowed respectfully toward him.

“Color me surprised,” Dorian murmured. “And they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

“The trick is hardly new, my dear. She knows her place, and how precarious her position is in this new world order.”

“So you think she’s attempting to hedge her bets? Make nice with the new Knight-Commander to keep him from locking the mages away in a Circle again?”

“My dear, as if Trevelyan would ever allow that to happen. He may appreciate the dangers that mages pose to the ordinary peoples of Thedas, but his own desire for freedom has overridden those concerns.”

Dorian felt slightly sour at Vivienne’s dismissal. “So you’re saying he should be forced to live locked away in a tower, after all he’s done for Thedas?”

“Of course not, my dear. All I’m suggesting is that our Lord Inquisitor ought to consider alternative perspectives.”

Dorian felt the heat rising to his temples. “As if Trevelyan hasn’t bled for everyone other than himself, since he was dropped out of the Fade. And don’t you think it’s a tad hypocritical for you to chastise him for his lack of open-mindedness?” 

Vivienne sighed. “My dear, I am not attempting to incite an argument –“

“For once,” Dorian spat. Vivienne paused, unmoved by his display, before continuing.

“However, you have one foot out the door, ready to combat the corruption in your homeland – the very corruption I wish to prevent here.” 

Dorian stopped for a moment to gather himself, before pouncing. “I _do not_ have one foot out the door. I will not leave until Corypheus is defeated, I have made that abundantly clear.”

“My dear, I was insinuating no such thing. Just that, like the rest of our small group, you have plans that lie outside the walls of this fortress.”

Dorian huffed, and looked down at the revelry. Trevelyan caught his glance, and waved up, a bright smile on his face. Dorian pulled his features together into something resembling happiness, and waved back. Trevelyan arched an eyebrow, and nodded his head toward Vivienne. Dorian shook a hand in response, and shooed Trevelyan away, that he might get back to celebrating. Fiona was shaking hands with Barris, and surprisingly, they both appeared to be enjoying each other’s company. 

“ _Quelle surprise_ ,” Vivienne glowered. “Come, my dear, let’s forget all this unpleasantness. Sit with me.”

She returned to her chaise, and Dorian followed along, seated across from her in one of the ornate chairs. He leaned forward and freshened her glass.

“Thank you,” she replied, before lifting it to her lips, while he freshened his own.

“I am forced to admit this is a rather exceptional vintage, darling, but don’t let it go to your head. The Imperium may have helped refine the process, but the Orlesians have perfected it.”

“I thought letting it go to your head was the entire point of drinking,” Dorian chuckled. Vivienne smiled on, amused. Dorian had brought a bottle of the vintage from the winery in Qarinus – that Trevelyan had, unbeknownst to him, acquired several bottles from – to both celebrate the elevation of Ser Barris, and to prove to her, once and for all, that Tevinter was supreme, at least in the realm of wine-making.

She swirled the glass in her hand underneath her nose. “I have always appreciated a full, well-crafted bouquet, darling, be it of flowers or of spices, and you were quite right: this bottle does not disappoint.”

“That’s the closest thing I’ll get to a ringing endorsement, I suppose?” Dorian chuckled, and Vivienne returned the gesture. It was as close to warm as he’d ever seen her.

“Oh, my darling Tevinter expatriate,” she started, before sighing. She looked longingly out the window, coated with a thin sheen of ice that distorted everything that lay beyond, at the snow-capped mountains in the distance. “When you’d first arrived in Haven, I questioned your intentions. As did everyone, a fact of which you were painfully aware.”

She continued. “But you’ve exceeded my expectations. A rarity, to be sure, but the Inquisitor saw better than any of us did, at the time.”

“I have a feeling this will lead to a compliment. What did he see, exactly?” Dorian said, leaning forward in his chair as Vivienne absentmindedly twirled the stem of the glass in between her fingers, before taking a deep pull.

“Your charm. I could see how you’ve stolen his heart,” Vivienne said, with the same bravado as if she were insulting the curtains in an otherwise tastefully decorated chateau. She froze for an instant, a reticent pause that was completely out of character for the fluid, graceful creature. She kicked her feet off the chaise gingerly, before leaning forward. 

“Although I’m absolutely certain you’ll ignore it, as you have every other time I’ve offered,” she scolded, “a word of advice, my dear Lord Pavus: cherish whatever time you have with him.”

Dorian’s mouth parted in mild shock as he stared at Vivienne’s eyes, laced with a steeled sadness, like watching the ice on a mountaintop begin to melt with the coming of spring. This realization had likely come with the passing of her lover, nod doubt. Dorian wondered if it was painful for her, to lean over her balcony and catch sight of the Inquisitor leading Dorian up to his chambers in the evening, laughing and smiling. If any of it made it recall the earlier days of her romance with the Duke, and the bitter sting of knowing that she’d never have a day with him again.

“There’s a first time for everything, Vivienne,” Dorian replied, quietly. He felt tempted to reach out a hand to console her, but thought better of it. She never would have taken it. 

But it was true. Time was destined to tear Trevelyan and Dorian apart, one way or another. Short of Trevelyan single-handedly saving the world, and bringing all of Thedas underneath his well-meaning heel - an impossibility beyond even those that Trevelyan regularly managed – they would find themselves at opposite ends of Thedas one day – if death didn’t part the pair beforehand – never quite knowing when the world would see fit to reunite them.

Dorian quietly prayed that somehow, they would find a way. 

___

 

“Try to get a good night’s sleep. We leave tomorrow, and we’ll be pushing ourselves to make it to Adamant quickly. Leliana’s agents have been helping to clear the route we plan on taking, so there should be no delays.”

They stood around the War Table. Trevelyan stared solemnly at the group, his glass of whiskey on the table in front of him, as his finger circled the rim. 

“Hawke confirmed that Adamant is teeming with Wardens, _and_ demons. We’ll have our work cut out for us.”

The Lady Hawke had made an unexpected appearance – arriving in the morning, to confirm her earlier reports. Adamant was overrun, and heavily guarded. It would be a bloodbath, no matter how they might try to mitigate the damage. 

“Hopefully there won’t be too much cutting involved,” Varric muttered.

“The place is crawling with demons,” Bull whispered back. “I doubt we’re going to be able to walk in and have a nice chat with Clarel.” 

Varric moaned, and turned to Sera. “What do you think, Buttercup?”

“I’m trying not to think, thank you. Demons, Wardens, whatever. If it moves, I’m putting arrows in it until it doesn’t.”

“Poetic as usual,” Varric whined.

“I’m not quite sure which I’d prefer: battling Wardens and demons at Adamant, or the glaring disapproval of the Orlesian nobility at Halamshiral,” Dorian added. Trevelyan smirked at him.

“The Winter Palace was far superior, my dear. I doubt there will be servants offering glasses of champagne on silver trays at Adamant,” Vivienne replied.

“Either way, this is a battle we have to fight,” Trevelyan said, silencing the chatter. “We’ve kept Orlais from falling into chaos thus far. Dismantling Corypheus’ demon army is the next step.”

“Let’s hope there are some among the Wardens who don’t support Clarel’s orders,” Blackwall said stoically. 

“Well, I pray that’s the case, but we shouldn’t be expecting it. Killing the demons ought to be our top priority. If the Wardens can be reasoned with, I say we save as many as we can.”

Cassandra let loose one of her “ughs,” and Solas shook his head.

“Regardless of how any of us might personally feel about the Wardens, we still don’t understand the exact nature of Corypheus’ pet Archdemon. On the off chance that it decides to start a new Blight, I don’t want to leave us defenseless.”

They all stood in silence for a moment, shuddering at their respective memories of Urthemiel’s rise. Dorian glanced at Bull, who’d been leagues away from the Fifth Blight, and shrugged his shoulders. It had been terrifying, knowing that the Blight was ripping the South apart, but they had been so far removed from the nightmare, it had hardly seemed real at the time. 

“Alright, you are dismissed. Enjoy yourselves this evening, but do turn in soon, if possible.”

They began to depart the War Room, and Sera sidled up alongside Dorian. “I bet you’ll be turning in later than the rest of us, while you’re busy _enjoying_ yourselves.”

“Sera, you talk more about it than I actually think about it.”

“That’s not true,” Cole said, appearing as usual out of thin air at Dorian’s side. Dorian rolled his eyes as Sera cackled. “Still, not as much as _he_ thinks about it.”

Trevelyan groaned loudly from behind them. “Make it stop, please.”

“Skin, so smooth and supple, maybe he’d steal away with me, but more meetings this afternoon,” Cole continued. 

“Go on,” Iron Bull coaxed him, as Trevelyan hid his face behind his hands.

“Maybe once more on the War Table? Oh, but it’s too crowded now.”

“ _What?!_ ” Cullen yelped. “Inquisitor!” 

The entire group collectively attempted to stifle their laughter, as Trevelyan melted in embarrassment. 

“Go,” Trevelyan growled. “Now.” Cole turned to look at Dorian.

“He means me.” 

And with a puff, Cole vanished, certainly to help someone else more than he was helping Trevelyan. 

“And we were just getting to the good part,” Varric said.

“I’m just going to throw myself to the demons at Adamant,” Trevelyan muttered from behind his hands. 

“Inquisitor! I thought you above such… base behavior!” Cullen refused to be ignored. Josephine put a hand on his shoulder, but he would not be placated.

“Oh, _Maker_ Cullen, it was one night, a long time ago.”

“Would you like a reenactment, Commander?” Dorian offered. “You did say I should invite you to Trevelyan’s room one of these evenings.”

“ _What?!_ ” Several voices shouted, Trevelyan’s possibly loudest among them.

“I was… that’s not how it happened… Dorian…” Cullen tried desperately to explain the situation away.

“You haven’t given me any time to warm him to the idea.” Cullen looked positively defeated, and Dorian chuckled with glee. He turned, and grabbed Trevelyan, who seemed to have shrunk several inches during this wonderful outburst, and dragged him through the door of the War Room. “My apologies; it doesn’t appear as though tonight is your night,” Dorian purred, as he passed by Cullen, who looked about as mortified as Trevelyan.

“Dorian!” Trevelyan shouted. “Out of the question!” Trevelyan turned his head back as Dorian dragged him down the hall. “I’m sorry, Cullen. You’re very handsome, and I’m very flattered…”

“ _Maker's breath!_ ” Cullen called after them.

“In another life!” Trevelyan called out apologetically, as Dorian pushed him through Josephine’s door, and shut it quickly behind them, delighting in the peals of laughter that echoed down the hallway. He turned to Trevelyan, whose face was still twisted up.

“Beautiful performance, Amatus.” 

“Thank you for the deflection. Poor Cullen. You know he’s never going to let you win a game of chess, ever?” 

“It’s not like I was winning, anyway.”

Trevelyan wrapped an arm around Dorian’s waist, and led him out into the Main Hall. Dorian’s head dipped onto Trevelyan’s shoulder as they made the short walk to Trevelyan’s chamber door.

“Cullen’s easygoing enough. He’ll be fine by tomorrow.” 

“I’m sure,” Dorian replied.

Trevelyan reached out for Dorian’s hand, and led him up the stairs, squeezing his fingers gently. 

“You’re in a mood tonight.”

“I am perfectly content,” Trevelyan said, smiling calmly at Dorian. 

“For once?”

Trevelyan chortled quietly. “I’d like to think I’m content more often than not.”

“I would say stressed, anxious, worried. Not that any of those emotions are unreasonable in your position.”

“I’m trying not to think about it. I’ve got your hand in mine. I’m going to get a good night’s sleep. And I’ll have another glass of whiskey before bed.”

Dorian stared at Trevelyan out the corner of his eyes, and couldn’t help but smile back in return.

“That sounds wonderful.”

They made their way into Trevelyan’s chamber, where Trevelyan immediately stepped out of his boots – he used his Fade Cloak spell to disrobe more often than he used it in battle – and made his way to the table by the sofa. 

“You want?”

“Where’s that bottle from?” Dorian asked, as he made his way to the closet to hang his robe from one of the hooks that Trevelyan had designated as Dorian’s. 

“It’s Marcher whiskey.”

“I suppose it won’t kill me,” Dorian called back to Trevelyan.

“It’s actually quite good.”

Dorian scoffed.

“I heard that.”

Dorian strolled back to Trevelyan’s side, and he handed Dorian a glass. Dorian lifted it to his nose, and sniffed. 

“Cheers,” Trevelyan offered his glass.

“To what?” 

“To you,” Trevelyan said. “And me. Us, really.”

Dorian smiled, in spite of Trevelyan’s delightfully ineloquent toast. “To us, then.” He lifted the glass to his lips and drank. Trevelyan was right. It was a smooth, well-spiced whiskey. 

“Not that bad?” Trevelyan asked.

“No, it’s surprisingly tolerable.” 

“I’m glad you like it.”

Trevelyan sat down on the sofa, and patted the seat next to him. Dorian sat and curled up close, his head resting against Trevelyan’s shoulder once more. Trevelyan turned to kiss Dorian on the head.

“We don’t do this enough,” Trevelyan murmured.

“What is _this_ exactly? Sitting and drinking in near silence?”

“Hey, you’re more than welcome to talk. I’m just happy to have an idle moment with you.”

Dorian frowned at himself. _Could you learn to appreciate even the smallest gesture of kindness, Pavus?_

Dorian grabbed at Trevelyan’s legs, and slid across the couch, placing Trevelyan’s feet in his lap. He set down his glass on the side table, and gently began to massage Trevelyan’s feet. 

“Oh, you don’t have –“ 

“You’ve had a long few days, _Amatus_. A long few months, really.”

“Oh?”

“I’m trying to do something nice for once; you could just humor me and play along.”

“All right,” Trevelyan sighed, amused by the development. His head rolled back against the arm of the sofa, and his eyes wandered over to Dorian’s face. “You’re nice more often than you give yourself credit for.”

“Lies and slander,” Dorian replied, his thumbs working into the pads of Trevelyan’s feet. Trevelyan raised an eyebrow. “I tease you far too often, considering how much else you have to put up with.”

“It’s fine. I actually enjoy it,” Trevelyan smiled. “At least I know, with you around, I’ll never have to worry about getting too full of myself.”

“I’m not trying to cut you down,” Dorian replied, a hint of agitation coloring his tone. Trevelyan picked his head up, his eyebrows creasing over his forehead.

“Love, I know that,” he replied, leaning forward, his hand stretching in an attempt to grab at Dorian’s shoulder, but unable to reach quite that far. Dorian turned slightly, and reached a hand out to hold Trevelyan’s. “Sometimes, it’s just… being the Inquisitor can be very tiring. I thought I had it all sorted out, but it keeps changing, demanding more of me. More nobles to greet, more troops willing to fight, more letters to write…”

“You’ve done very well.”

“Thank you, love,” Trevelyan replied. “It’s my own fault. I love you, very much. If there’s anyone in this world I ought to find patience for, it’s you. You don’t deserve to bear the brunt of it.”

“Hardly, _Amatus_. Maybe I need to learn when you’ve been pushed too far, and not do any more pushing of my own.” 

They sat there, staring off into their respective spaces, Trevelyan’s thumb tracing lines across Dorian’s palm, as Dorian’s other hand continued massaging Trevelyan’s foot mechanically. 

“I’ll be better.”

Dorian turned and looked at Trevelyan, who had returned to his habit of gazing wistfully out the window, his eyes dragged down by sadness and fatigue. Dorian pulled gently at his hand, and Trevelyan’s head turned to look at him, his expression tentative.

“Come on. Finish your drink, and let’s go to bed.” 

Trevelyan’s lips curled in a weak smile, and he squeezed Dorian’s hand gently before taking a final sip, emptying the contents of his glass. Dorian released Trevelyan’s feet, and grabbed for his own glass, finishing it in two quick gulps.

Trevelyan stood up, and offered Dorian a hand, which Dorian took, Trevelyan pulling him up off the sofa and into his arms.

“I love you,” he murmured. 

“I love you, too,” Dorian replied, before leaning in to kiss him. It was a tender, simple kiss, Trevelyan setting a slow pace. Dorian was all too happy to follow his lead. They stood, wrapped around each other, for several moments, their lips moving in legato unison, as they maintained the steady rhythm. 

“Come on. Time for bed,” Trevelyan whispered.

“Help me out of these, would you?” Dorian motioned down to his clothes, and he felt Trevelyan’s hand on his chin, and the subtle whir of the Fade wrapping around them, as the pair of them vanished from this plane of existence, their clothes dropping on to the floor around them.

Trevelyan brought them back to reality, and placed a hand in the small of Dorian’s back, kissing him gently once more, before settling down on the bed behind him. Dorian slid past him, to his side – nearest the balcony that overlooked the courtyard – and slid under the covers. Trevelyan followed suit, and wrapped an arm around Dorian’s waist, pulling him close. Their legs tangled underneath the sheets, Trevelyan’s breath warm and comforting on the back of Dorian’s neck.

“Thank you for the massage,” Trevelyan murmured through a yawn, the side of his face pressed against Dorian’s back.

“You are welcome.”

“Goodnight, my love,” Trevelyan whispered. 

“Goodnight, _Amatus_.”

___

 

“This ale is swill. Awful. Why am I still drinking it?”

“Because you’re a drunkard with terrible taste,” Blackwall replied.

“Hey!” Trevelyan appeared, trailing behind two of Cullen’s guards as they passed by the campfire. “… I don’t have a counter argument for that point.” He winked at Dorian, and turned to follow the guards once more. 

Blackwall laughed. Sera devolved into maniacal chuckles, and Varric grabbed for a piece of scrap paper.

“Oh, that line is definitely making it into the book.”

“You’re writing a novel? About the Inquisition?” Blackwall asked.

“’Tales of the Champion’ sold well enough. This entire Inquisition seems like a decent sequel.”

“Decent?” Dorian scoffed. “My presence alone pushes it well beyond the realm of ‘decent’ and square into ‘transcendent.’” 

“Don’t know where the Inquisitor finds room to stuff it when you’re so full of yourself,” Sera whined, stretching her legs out toward the flames. Varric chuckled, and scrawled some more lines on the page in front of him.

“This is gold,” Varric smiled.

“You aren’t even writing,” Blackwall muttered. “You’re just lifting our conversation.”

“Hey!” Sera shouted, her eyebrows furrowing angrily toward Varric. “Yeah!” It appeared as though she understood that she ought to be angry, but she didn’t quite understand why.

“If you’re going to be stealing my sterling contributions, then I expect royalties,” Dorian said, waving his finger in Varric’s direction. 

“I’ll just subtract them from what you owe me for our little bets,” Varric smiled.

“I believe I’ve squared away all my debts, unless you’re playing fast and loose with your financial records.”

“Don’t even insinuate that. Somehow, the Carta’ll get word, and I’ll be getting shaken down.”

“Well, at least you won’t have too far to fall,” Dorian sniped, and Varric grabbed his chest, making a jokingly pained face.

“That’s why you have to pick him up before you drop him,” a female voice called out from behind Dorian, soft footsteps following. The hairs on the back of Dorian’s neck stood up, and it was only when the lithe figure slipped next to him, edging her way close to him, that Dorian confirmed his suspicions. 

“How kind of you to join our little group, Hawke,” Dorian muttered sarcastically. 

“Aww, Sparkler,” Hawke said, having picked up his nickname from Varric over the course of their journey to Adamant. “I’m glad to see you, too.”

“Don’t mind him; he’s always complaining,” Varric said. 

“Must be why the pair of you get along so well,” Hawke replied.

Dorian took another sip of the ale, and felt the warm liquid coagulate in the back of his throat. He promised himself he’d find whoever was responsible for brewing this monstrosity and have his memory erased, so he might learn to brew a decent ale with a fresh mind.

“Surprised the Inquisitor isn’t dragging you around by the collar,” Hawke said, leaning towards Dorian.

“Lucky me, he let me off the leash this evening,” Dorian replied, his voice deadened.

“Can’t keep my Tevinter on a leash; too many memories, none of them good.”

“Thankfully, you didn’t bring Fenris along on this trip,” Varric interjected.

“Cheers to that,” Dorian responded. “He probably would have killed me in my sleep.”

“Now, now. Just because he wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth doesn’t mean he never learned proper manners.”

“Ugh,” Dorian gurgled. He wasn’t pleased with the company, or his most recent sip of ale.

“I haven’t had a chance to ask you,” Blackwall interrupted the scene, his face suddenly severe, looking across the flames at Hawke. “How bad are things at Adamant?”

Hawke’s rosebud lips dropped, and her eyes widened slightly. She looked down into the fire and sighed. “Not great, that’s for sure.” Blackwall’s head sunk in defeat. Hawke looked over at Varric, who shook his head solemnly. Sera crawled over to Blackwall’s side.

“There, there. We’ll pull their heads out their arses,” she cooed, and Blackwall smiled.

“Blackwall,” Dorian called, his voice cool and callous. “I may not be your favorite person sitting around this fire, but I can assure you: the Inquisitor wants nothing more than to sway the Wardens from their course with as little bloodshed as possible.”

Blackwall stared at Dorian through pained eyes, and nodded respectfully. 

“Thank you,” the Warden replied. Dorian raised his cup in respect, and finished its contents. Strangely, the last sip was almost sweet. 

“I’m going to turn in. Goodnight, everyone,” Dorian said, as he lifted himself off the log, stepping over it to move toward his tent. They all called their respective ‘good nights’ after him as he departed from the campfire.

The air was crisp and cold, as it blew through his robes that fluttered behind him. He walked past Vivienne’s tent, which was pitch-black. No one appreciated the importance of beauty rest quite as much as the Court Enchanter. He ought to learn a lesson or two from her – she’d aged quite gracefully. Then again, she certainly didn’t have nearly as much fun as he did.

A soldier lifted the flap to his overlarge tent – the one he invariably shared with Trevelyan – and Dorian nodded politely. 

“Make sure to warn me if the Inquisitor decides to drag anyone into the tent. I’d prefer to avoid a bare-assed embarrassment, if possible.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you, soldier.”

Dorian dropped to the bedroll, and magicked the buckles of his boots, pulling them off his body. It had been a long and uneventful several days, traveling across Southern Orlais to their ultimate destination. Adamant loomed in the distance, just over the horizon, and while everything was calm, the tension amongst the troops was palpable. This was the first major battle most of the Inquisition forces had seen since Haven, one that they had to win. The spectre of that little mountain town hung over their heads like a shroud. 

Sure, they managed to beat a hasty retreat – thanks in no small part to Trevelyan’s sacrifice – but it was no resounding victory. In spite of the many months that separated them from that early defeat, their increased numbers, their superior equipment, and their rigorous training, each recruit marched forward with an air of uncertainty. Would they finally have a taste of victory?

Trevelyan, for his part, spent his days rallying the troops, speaking with them, attempting to calm their nerves and raise their spirits. Dorian watched Trevelyan chatting with them, asking where they came from, what brought them to the Inquisition, if they had families, friends, lovers to go home to. He listened patiently, never rushing them. If an agent attempted to pull Trevelyan away, he made them wait until he’d found a point to cut off the conversation, asking to be excused and thanking them for their commitment to the Inquisition’s cause. 

Dorian had spent the journey atop Faustus, who snorted every time Trevelyan came near. 

_He hates me_ , Trevelyan laughed, as the horse attempted to evade Trevelyan’s hands as they reached out to pet its face.

_Don’t take it personally; he hates everyone_ , Dorian replied. 

Trevelyan had been getting up early and getting to sleep late each day. Dorian had offered to assist him in any way that he needed, but Trevelyan had politely declined. 

_No need for you to burden yourself_ , he’d said, as he leaned down to the bedroll to kiss Dorian on the forehead. _You contribute enough, putting up with me._

Dorian had reached up to pull him down, to kiss him on the lips. _I’m glad you recognize my suffering._

Still, it was strange. Dorian would find himself on the brink of falling asleep, and he’d hover there, for what felt like hours, until Trevelyan quietly made his way back into the tent. Dorian would pretend to be asleep, as Trevelyan quietly removed his robes, slipping carefully into the bedroll. Dorian would purposely sprawl out, forcing Trevelyan to move his arms and legs in order to slip underneath the covers. Dorian would pretend that Trevelyan’s disturbance had woken him up, and Trevelyan would apologize profusely, as Dorian would wrap himself around Trevelyan’s body, while Trevelyan planted kisses on his head. Invariably, Trevelyan would fall asleep before Dorian, and the smooth rise and fall of his chest helped Dorian drift off to his dreams.

Sleeping without Trevelyan had become a near impossibility, and it was absolutely ridiculous. 

It seemed Trevelyan suffered from the same problem, but Dorian had no desire to discuss it further. Things had been smooth between the pair, but Dorian couldn’t help but feel the space between them, a void of silence that grew with each word left unsaid. Dorian was more than happy to avoid any confrontations, so long as it meant that he could continue sleeping alongside Trevelyan. 

For now, at least.

Dorian had tried putting the future out of his mind, when there was still so much ahead of them. They hadn’t quite yet unraveled Corypheus’ plans. There was plenty more to worry about, before they had to confront Dorian’s departure, and there was absolutely no need to put any more stress on Trevelyan’s plate. He wouldn’t be responsible for destroying the Inquisition by pushing the Inquisitor over the edge.

He yawned. It would be a while before Trevelyan returned. He ought to have brought a book with him, but it had seemed relatively unimportant, considering how much else that was being transported for the siege.

He heard the flap of the tent open, and rolled over to find Trevelyan creeping gently toward the corner of the tent to disrobe.

“You’re back early this evening,” Dorian called out to him, propping himself up on his elbow, leaning on his hand.

“I needed an early – earlier – night, and so did Cullen. He’s working himself into a frenzy.”

“That’s hardly surprising. How is our illustrious Commander doing?”

“He’s tense. Of course, it’s hidden behind layers of stoicism and determination, but you know Cullen. ‘I’m fine,’” Trevelyan mimicked, as he removed his pants. “’Maker willing, we’ll be able to take Adamant without too many casualties on either side.’”

“He needs to relieve some tension. You should send someone to his tent, have them strip him down, have their way with him, and report back to you with all the gory details.”

“You mean invite him back to ours?” Trevelyan said, as he walked over to the bedroll. Dorian looked up, and saw Trevelyan standing naked above him, his physique just barely visible in the darkness of the tent. “Would you mind moving over, so I don’t have to rudely shove you out of the way?” 

“You are more stealthy climbing into this bedroll than you are when we’re attempting to sneak up on a group of Red Templars,” Dorian huffed, as he rolled over to allow Trevelyan some room. Trevelyan slipped under the covers in a quick, fluid motion, and Dorian wrapped his leg over Trevelyan, sneaking into the nook.

“I don’t want to interrupt your beauty rest. Not that you need it,” Trevelyan purred, his hand rubbing Dorian’s back gently as he leaned down to kiss him.

“Flatterer.”

“It’s never bothered you before,” Trevelyan muttered, squeezing Dorian gently, his free hand finding its way to Dorian’s, which rested on Trevelyan’s stomach. 

“Hearing how wonderful I am?” Dorian purred. “It will never bother me.”

Trevelyan smiled. 

“I love you. Possibly more than you love yourself.”

Dorian’s eyes widened comically. He wondered if Trevelyan could see the exaggeration in the dark. “Are you certain? You know how much I love me.”

“Even more than that,” Trevelyan whispered. Dorian rested his chin on Trevelyan’s chest, staring at the shadowy outlines of his features. Trevelyan rested his head against his pillow, and Dorian slid up Trevelyan’s body to his face.

“Hey there,” Trevelyan purred. Dorian leaned down to kiss him.

“Hello, _Amatus_.”

“When this is all done, let’s do something. Just the two of us. I’m open to suggestions.”

Dorian rolled his hips against Trevelyan, who murmured his approval and slid his hand down Dorian’s back, firmly grabbing his ass.

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Trevelyan said, his fingers slipping in between Dorian’s cheeks, and tracing circles around his hole.

Dorian’s head dipped down, and planted kisses on Trevelyan’s chest. “What exactly did you have in mind?” Dorian purred, before gently nibbling on Trevelyan’s nipple. Trevelyan moaned, his back arching as his hand slipped away from Dorian’s ass and grabbed the back of Dorian’s head.

“Another dinner with Tevinter cuisine… aaah!” Trevelyan gasped, as Dorian sucked down on his stomach. “Or a trip to Val Royeaux. Just suggestions. Whatever you’d like.” 

Dorian trailed his tongue over Trevelyan’s belly button, and down toward his cock, which had begun to swell. “By this point you’re normally hard as silverite,” Dorian said, grabbing at Trevelyan’s cock and squeezing it in his hand. 

“I’m trying to focus on the conversation, and you’re trying to distract me,” Trevelyan moaned, as Dorian’s lips traveled up and down Trevelyan’s cock. Trevelyan’s hips rolled in approval, and his head leaned back. Dorian took all of Trevelyan into his mouth – a task made much easier considering he wasn’t quite at full mast – and Trevelyan growled.

“ _Fuck!_ ” His head shot back up to look at Dorian, his face twisted in pleasure. “So, what do you think?”

“Yes, yes,” Dorian muttered, licking the head of Trevelyan’s cock, which had swollen rapidly underneath the pressure of his hand. “It’s a wonderful idea, and I would very much enjoy working out the specifics at a later time, when my mouth isn’t full.”

Trevelyan gasped as Dorian took him into his mouth once more, his fingers running along the back of Dorian’s head, following its motion as it bobbed up and down. Dorian sucked greedily at Trevelyan, and Trevelyan responded beautifully, his body roiling underneath Dorian’s mouth, quiet gasps and curses escaping his lips.

Dorian pulled his mouth off Trevelyan, his hand still wrapped around the base of Trevelyan’s cock, and Trevelyan looked down, his chest rising and falling heavily. He leaned forward, his hand grasping Dorian’s cheek as his thumb swiped across a small trail of saliva that had dribbled down Dorian’s lip.

“So fucking sexy,” Trevelyan growled. Dorian smiled, and nipped at Trevelyan’s thumb. “Get up here.”

“Bossing me around now?” Dorian asked, his lips gently grazing Trevelyan’s thighs. 

“The bed may be the only place I would ever attempt to boss you around,” Trevelyan chuckled. “And even then, it’s about a fifty-fifty chance you’ll listen.”

“Eighty-twenty,” Dorian replied from between Trevelyan’s legs, sucking on his balls. 

“Get up here,” Trevelyan repeated, as his fingers scratched gently at Dorian’s shoulder.

“Fine,” Dorian said, giving Trevelyan’s cock one final lick. “But I’ll have you know, I was rather enjoying myself.”

“Oh, well then,” Trevelyan hummed. “By all means, enjoy yourself.” 

“No, _I’m listening_ ,” Dorian teased, as he slid up Trevelyan’s body, “ _for once._ ”

“Ugh,” Trevelyan grunted, as Dorian kissed him. “I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.”

“Keep quiet and look pretty. I do enough talking for the both of us, anyway.” Trevelyan kissed Dorian, his hands pulling at Dorian’s ass. Dorian ground his hips into Trevelyan. “Grab the oil.”

“Someone’s eager. Not that I’m complaining, or suggesting anything at all.”

Trevelyan grabbed at his pack, and fumbled around. 

“Damn it, where the…” he grumbled, as his hand maneuvered through the bag. “Ah, okay.”

He produced the vial, and uncorked it with his teeth. He poured some oil on to his fingers, and reached them underneath of Dorian, carefully inserting one inside of him, pressing down on his spot.

“ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian gasped, his legs shaking underneath him. Trevelyan doubled down on his efforts, pushing more forcefully, as Dorian reflexively pushed back against his hand, eager for more manipulation. Trevelyan slid his finger out, quickly replacing it with two fingers, and Dorian groaned, his hands on Trevleyan’s chest, as Trevelyan continued to stroke the spot. Trevelyan put the vial down, and his other hand reached out to grab Dorian’s cock, his thumb sliding over the thick stream of precum that bubbled at the tip of Dorian’s cock, before he began to jerk it.

Dorian moaned lowly, his breath catching in his chest with each gentle push of Trevelyan’s fingers as he bounced in Trevelyan’s hand. His eyes peeled open and glanced down at Trevelyan, whose gaze was locked intently on his face, his teeth clamped down on his lower lip.

“You derive… _aaah_ … some twisted pleasure from this,” Dorian purred, his fingers clawing into Trevelyan’s flesh.

“Nothing gets me off like getting you off,” Trevelyan replied, a deep, gravelly reply. Dorian fell forward onto Trevelyan’s chest, gasping into his collarbone, and he heard the low, pleased grunts emanating from deep in Trevelyan’s chest.

“Get the vial,” Dorian sighed. “I’m ready.”

Trevelyan complied, removing his hand from Dorian’s cock and finding the vial once more. Dorian grabbed it from his hands and poured a generous amount in his palm, turning back to slather Trevelyan’s cock in the slick substance.

Trevelyan removed his fingers from inside Dorian, and Dorian eagerly placed himself on the tip of Trevelyan’s cock. He began to slide down, and he watched as Trevelyan’s mouth rounded into an ‘o’ shape, his eyes narrow and his breath uneven.

“ _Maker_ , you are perfection.”

“Say that when you aren’t inside of me,” Dorian replied curtly, feeling Trevelyan’s cock stretching him apart. He leaned back to improve the angle of entry, and he felt Trevelyan shift underneath him. He turned his head back to find that Trevelyan had picked himself up off the bedroll, and had sat up, Dorian anchored in his lap by his cock. 

“You’re a pain in the ass,” Trevelyan said, wrapping his arms around Dorian’s waist.

“Interesting turn of phrase, all things considered,” Dorian moaned. He sunk down further onto Trevelyan and breathed a sharp breath.

“I have to push you to admit you feel anything other than amusement, you poke fun at me whenever the opportunity arises, and getting you to meet me halfway is like pulling teeth from a Pride Demon.” 

“Is now really the time for this?” Dorian gasped, finally seated comfortably in Trevelyan’s lap, Trevelyan full and thick inside of him. He could hardly think straight, let alone absorb any of Trevelyan’s criticisms.

“I wouldn’t have you any other way,” Trevelyan murmured, placing a hand on Dorian’s chest. Dorian stopped, and looked down at Trevelyan. He leaned forward, his forehead touching Trevelyan’s.

“You’re an ass.”

Trevelyan smiled, and leaned forward to capture Dorian’s lips in his own. Dorian wrapped his legs around Trevelyan, and they rocked gently back and forth, entangled in each other, Trevelyan gently thrusting inside of Dorian, pulling apart only to catch their breath quickly, before pressing their lips and their bodies back together once more. 

Trevelyan was sweet and gentle, and Dorian kissed him tenderly, Trevelyan’s cock edging Dorian closer with every thrust, deep yet delicate inside of him. Dorian moaned, frustrated.

“Finish me, please,” he begged, arms wrapped around Trevelyan.

“Just a little longer now, my love,” Trevelyan chided, maintaining his pace, as Dorian’s back arched furiously, his muscles aflame as they tensed and released over and over again.

Dorian found himself underneath of Trevelyan, with no concept of when Trevelyan had pulled the pair of them down to the sheets, and still, Trevelyan kept along, moving slow and subdued, like the beating of a heart while one slept.

“ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian whispered. Trevelyan wrapped a hand around Dorian’s cock, and began to jerk slowly. Dorian made several successive grunts, his body twisting spasmodically as Trevelyan jerked him and thrust into him in an uneven rhythm, all for the express purpose of torturing Dorian with the most exquisite pleasure. 

“How much longer?” Dorian gasped, his eyes unfocused.

“Tell me you love me,” Trevelyan murmured in his ear, his face pressed into the side of Dorian’s face, leaning over Dorian’s body as his hands deepened their effort, slick with the precum that practically spilled from the tip of Dorian’s cock.

“I love you, _Amatus_ ,” he moaned, as Trevelyan’s hands moved quicker, his cock thrusting deeper. Dorian felt it beginning to rise up inside of himself. “I love you.”

“Don’t stop,” Trevelyan said, his breath strained, his voice low, his desires phrased like a command, but Dorian understood the desperate plea. He pushed Trevelyan back, and grabbed his head, bringing their lips together once more. 

“I love you,” Dorian whispered, as he felt Trevelyan’s muscles tense furiously around him. “I love you,” Dorian said, as he felt the flames consume the pair of them. It all came, an impossibly furious explosion in this gentle, silent bubble, punctuated by their desperate breaths, their only anchor to reality Dorian’s voice, repeating over and over again. “I love you.”

___

 

“Mages! Barriers!”

Dorian’s arms spun instinctively, and he felt his barrier joining in unison with tens of other barriers, stretching over the front lines of the army, as the first wave of arrows launched by the Wardens flew toward them. The whistle of the arrows sailing through the air was cut short when they came up against the barrier, smacking against it and falling through, their velocity utterly crushed by the strength of the mages who supported it, as they tumbled to the ground, no more harmful than a raindrop.

“They’ll be on us again soon!” Trevelyan shouted above the groan of hundreds of feet marching toward the fortress, the rumbling of catapults and battering rams being pushed forward by Inquisition soldiers nearly drowning out his commands. “Watch that their Mages don’t dispel our barriers as the arrows come through!”

They were close enough that Dorian could hear the shrieks of the demons on the ramparts. Trevelyan and Cullen’s plan was about to come to fruition, and Dorian felt as though he’d been charged with lightning. It was invigorating, in the way that knowing you were about to slaughter hordes of men and demons was: sad, weighty, with the crushing realization that one party must fall, and it wasn’t about to be you.

“Second wave!” Trevelyan shouted, his voice amplified by a simple spell that Dorian had taught him just hours prior. The sound of the arrows sailing through the air was accompanied by the hum of electricity and the crackling of fireballs – they were now within range of the Grey Warden’s mages. Dorian cast his barrier thick and wide, to make up for any deficiencies that might exist amongst those of his allies, as they were pelted once more. They made it through without a scratch. Dorian watched as long ladders were brought to the front lines, so the soldiers might scale the walls and begin to clear the ramparts.

“Mages! The Ramparts!” 

“Watch and learn, darling,” Vivienne purred next to him, as she stepped forward with several other mages, and they pulled the Fade before them, above them, and directed it over the ramparts. Dorian watched as puffy clouds formed above the heads of the Wardens and demons on the ramparts, and a raging blizzard tore over the walls, freezing their foes slowly as they screamed. 

“Excellent work, Vivienne,” Dorian chuckled, his barrier deflecting one final arrow that had been launched in a desperate bid from an archer who was now encased in ice. The Inquisition soldiers hastily scaled the ladders, and began the sickening work of reducing the frozen blocks of humans and demons into nothing more than slushy puddles of blood and flesh. Dorian watched as the enormous balls of flame soared through the sky, launched from the catapults in the distance, and smiled grimly at the resultant screams that emanated from the fortress. 

He heard the violent echo of the battering ram slamming against the front of the fortress. “That’s our cue,” he shouted at Vivienne, and they darted through the soldiers, running toward the gate. Dorian saw Bull and Blackwall charging forth out of the corner of his eyes, and turned to see Trevelyan, helping to give the battering ram an extra push with some spellwork.

“I pray that he treats you more tenderly than that in the boudoir,” Vivienne said.

“I don’t!” Dorian shouted back to her, as they approached the front gates, which finally gave way with an angry crash, the Inquisition’s soldiers pouring through the opening in a steady stream, shields at the ready. The rest of the Inner Circle moved forward.

“You know what we have to do! The mages are beyond hope, but there may be some amongst their number we might save!” Trevelyan shouted. Blackwall nodded, pleased with Trevelyan’s willingness to save his comrades. “We move!” 

They charged through the front gates, Blackwall and Cassandra leading the way, Bull and Sera close behind them. Trevelyan and Vivienne darted along after them. 

“Hey Sparkler,” Varric called, his stubby legs carrying him along as he charged forward, Bianca jangling in his arms. “Care to place a bet?”

Dorian looked forward, and watched as Cole eviscerated a Demon with several quick slashes. He drew a barrier around Bull, who was busy trying to smash the skull of a Warden Mage. _Idiot Qunari._

“What are you terms?” Dorian called, as Varric launched a charged, blinding arrow at a demon that ricocheted violently into the side of the mage that Bull was attempting to slaughter. Luckily, it knocked the mage flat on his side, and Bull was able to profit off the opportunity, smashing the head of the mage against the ground like an overripe melon. 

Dorian gagged.

“On second thought, never mind,” Dorian gasped, as they moved through the fortress, picking off the offending Wardens as quickly and painlessly as possible, Trevelyan attempting to convince them to lay down their arms with little success. 

“Suit yourself,” Varric laughed, as Solas smashed a group of demons to the ground with a Veilstrike. Trevelyan and Vivienne picked them off one by one, stabbing their Spectral Blades through the skulls of the offending beasts. 

“Come on!” Trevelyan shouted. “We have to make it up to the battlements and help the troops!” 

“He’s determined to kill every demon in this place,” Dorian groaned. 

“You haven’t even killed one yet,” Sera chirped, appearing alongside him as they ran up the stairs. A boulder launched from the catapults landed in front of them, smashing into a Warden who couldn’t manage to escape.

“This way!” Trevelyan shouted, turning right. 

“Over here!” Dorian heard the voice – Hawke – encouraging Trevelyan.

_Ugh._

Hawke was gliding across the battlefield, her daggers slicing into a Rage Demon that couldn’t quite twist itself around fast enough to keep up with her. Trevelyan spun his staff around and froze the beast solid, while Hawke hacked away at it, breaking off bits and pieces. 

“Watch out!” Varric cried, as he launched an arrow that exploded on contact, shattering the demon into bits. 

“I forgot how handy that crossbow is,” Hawke laughed, as they charged down the ramparts.

“She’s a beauty, this one,” Varric replied, as they caught sight of the battle at the end of the ramparts. Demons littered the place, and the Inquisition soldiers were doing their best to fend them off.

“We need to help them!” Trevelyan shouted. Cole appeared alongside of him.

“I can help,” he said, and suddenly, smoke billowed around them as they vanished. Cole's little trick, extended to the lot of them. _How strange - it's not quite magic, but I can feel the Fade._

“It doesn’t last forever!” Cole whimpered loudly.

“Then let’s make it count!” Trevelyan shouted. “Go for the demons first!” 

Dorian ran quickly, the loud thuds of Bull’s footfalls passing him. He watched a Despair Demon, attempting to freeze an Inquisition soldier, as Bull’s axe appeared from thin air and came down on its head, crushing the tiny demon into the ground, as its corpse shattered, shimmering a bright green as it vanished into the Fade. 

He saw the brilliant shine of Sera’s arrow, launching like a bolt of lightning across the battlefield as it crashed into the side of a Shade. Cassandra’s blade appeared in its skull, and Cassandra appeared thereafter, striking it once more in the neck to insure that it was, in fact, dead. 

Dorian launched a barrage of thunder, watching as the steams arced through the air, before they converged on a Terror demon, who screamed angrily as it turned to face him. A gross miscalculation, as Cole’s shadow appeared behind it, a blur of violet light striking him over and over again. Dorian watched as its limbs fell to the ground, its body, completely void of extremities, tumbling down to the ground. 

Dorian watched as another Shade was frozen solid by Vivienne, and summarily smashed to pieces by a well-placed Stonefist from Solas. 

Admirable work, all of it, but not up to snuff. Cole had wrapped them in whatever strange Fade-magic-nonsense he did, and it had helped to thin the herd. But numerous threats still remained, groaning and shrieking and slowly realizing that newer, more tantalizing targets had appeared before them. 

What they should have done was aim for the biggest demon, remove the biggest threat. Of course, that would have been the plan, had Cole given them adequate time to prepare. It wasn’t his fault. There was hardly enough time to think, only react. Adamant was lousy with demons and Wardens. The only thing they had time for was the split-second determination of how to fell whatever threat faced them. 

Dorian turned, and the whirl of the Fade pulled from the base of his staff straight on through, bursting angrily from the tip. The Walking Bomb launched from the end of his staff, swirling in a viscous, violet blob as it dissipated upon the hide of the Pride demon. It turned to face Dorian, and cackled at him.

“Don’t get cocky!” Trevelyan yelled, his blade slashing through a Wisp that crackled with electricity, penetrating its measly barrier as though it were butter and cleaving the spirit in twain as it glittered back into Fade. 

“Focus on yourself!” Dorian shouted back, as the Pride Demon sauntered forward. Dorian could feel the bomb building inside of the Demon. 

_Come on, hurry up._

The bomb exploded, and the Demon was knocked back, falling on its knee. Cole appeared, flying through air behind the monster, as he dug his daggers into its back, ripping and tearing into its flesh. The Demon roared, twisting angrily as it rose to its feet. 

_It appears that you’ve made a gross miscalculation._

Dorian gasped. He reached to pull a Barrier around Cole, who was quickly whipped off the back of the demon, flying again, but this time, not of his own volition. He landed against a wall with a thud, the impact lessened by the Barrier around him. The demon turned its attention back to Dorian, and chuckled, a sick gurgling sound emanating from its through. Dorian saw blood seeping from its mouth, thick and bilious. He may not have killed it, but he’d done plenty of damage. 

Dorian pulled a Barrier around himself in anticipation – he watched as the demon former a giant orb of lightning that he launched across the field. 

“Someone help Dorian!” Trevelyan shouted. 

Dorian’s Barrier held out just long enough for the orb to crackle away, without any harm to him, save for a few errant sparks that glittered and burned into his robes. Dorian looked up, and watched as the Pride Demon chuckled darkly, its arm outstretched, the bolt of thunder in its hand fashioned into a violet whip. It pulled its arm back, preparing to strike. Dorian gritted his teeth. 

_This is going to hurt, Pavus. Chin up. You were asking for it._

A flash of pale blue whirled before him, and Trevelyan stepped from the cloud, standing before him.

_ASS!_

The whip flew forward, and Trevelyan extended his arm, his Spectral Blade in hand, as the length of the whip wrapped around the blade, before the bolts ran through the course of the whip and down the blade. Trevelyan shouted, a sick, guttural noise that vanished suddenly, along with the rest of his body.

The whip fell to the ground, its charge wasted, as the Pride Demon stared angrily at the empty space that was once occupied by Trevelyan. Its face twisted suddenly, and Dorian watched as the green glow of Trevelyan’s blade split the beast in two, the two halves of its torso falling to their sides as Trevelyan emerged from inside of the monster. He was coated in its blood and grime, breathing heavily, several slight burns apparent on his cheeks, and a nasty gash above his ear.

“ _What the fuck were you thinking?!_ ” Dorian shouted. Trevelyan turned to the side, and a giant wall of ice rose up, just as another Shade attempted to bear down upon them.

“ _Maker_ , I wonder? Maybe, ‘Let’s not let the demon ruin Dorian’s pretty face’?”

“You’re an ass,” Dorian grumbled, grabbing at Trevelyan’s face as a healing spell sealed the wound closed. Hopefully, he could guilt Trevelyan into actually taking care of it, to prevent it from scarring.

“I’m fine,” Trevelyan growled, as his arm twitched at his side. Dorian looked down, and watched as a little jolt ran between his fingers. Dorian arched an eyebrow. “Maker, I promise, you can yell at me later.”

The shouts of the demons were distant. The ramparts were clear. 

“I’ll have you know I’m excellent at multi-tasking,” Dorian said, as the group started off, deeper into the winding fortress. “I can yell at you and slaughter a demon at the same time.”

Trevelyan turned and grinned slightly. 

“ _Vishante kaffas_ , you are infuriating.”

“Love you, too.” 

Wardens had appeared in the path before them. Trevelyan turned to Dorian.

“We’re not here to kill Wardens!” Trevelyan shouted. “We’re here to stop Clarel!”

The arrow they shot at Trevelyan was sufficiently indicative of their lack of interest in Trevelyan’s offer of clemency. Trevelyan sighed, exhausted. He turned to Dorian.

“Shall we?”

___

 

The Archdemon swooped low overhead, raining down endless shards of red lyrium, roaring angrily as it rose back into the air to make another pass at their group. 

“Come on! We have to get to Clarel!” Trevelyan shouted. 

The group gave chase, as the Archdemon roared up behind them. Barriers drew up around the group, and Dorian felt the heat of its breath bearing down upon them. Maintaining the barrier was a terrible strain, but there was no other option. Dorian grabbed at his pocket. Only one lyrium potion left. 

If they had to face the Archdemon head on, he’d regret consuming it now, even if the alchemists at Skyhold had developed a quite potent brew. It might last exceptionally long, but he’d need all the power he could muster if the Archdemon were to attack. 

They rounded the corner, down a narrow pathway. They could see Clarel ahead, chasing after Livius. The slimy, second-rate Magister attempted to stave her off with a quick spell or two, launched over his shoulder, but she deflected them with expertise, continuing her charge. 

“Come on!” Trevelyan shouted. The Archdemon screeched, but Dorian wasn’t quite sure where it had gone.

Until he heard the sounds of its claws tearing at the wall of the pathway before him, its head snaking in between columns, as it turned to attack them.

“Vivienne!” Trevelyan screamed, and the Knight Enchanters darted forward, their barriers nigh impenetrable when laced together. 

The Archdemon breathed its red lyrium breath down the hall, and Dorian pushed his barrier forth. Solas stood alongside him, his staff raised before him, as he added his barrier to their group.

“Sera!” Trevelyan shouted. 

“Oh, right!” Sera shouted, as she leaned over the railing and launched an arrow into the Archdemon’s side. 

“Not enough!” Trevelyan shouted. “Vivienne, can you hold it?”

“Let’s hope, my dear,” she replied, her voice strained.

“Blackwall, Cassandra, get in front, now! Shields up, just in case!” 

Trevelyan vanished once more, as the Fade Cloak wrapped around him. His Barrier remained, but without his power to support it, the Archdemon’s assault began to wear it thin. Dorian head Vivienne moan audibly underneath the strain, and tried desperately to push more of his reserves into the barrier in front of him. What was Trevelyan playing at? They wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. Sera continued shooting arrows into the beast’s hide, but they were nothing more than pinpricks.

Suddenly, the blighted dragon’s breath abated, as it roared angrily and snaked it head back out, and turned to fly away. Trevelyan stood where its head had been, spectral blade in hand, soaked in the blood of the beast. His robes were positively filthy, coated in the blood of just about everything he’d had the privilege of killing that evening. 

“Come on! We have to hurry!” 

They charged, rounding a corner, flying up the stairs. Trevelyan burst forth into a Fade Step, desperate to catch up with the Warden Commander. 

A wave of panic overtook Dorian, and his stomach twisted up in knots. Adamant had gone belly-up – rather quickly, he might add – once the Archdemon had been added to the equation. It was a positively dreadful sense of foreboding, one that shouldn’t have had any room to creep into his mind but had found a foothold and quickly overtook him. His lungs burned, his limbs shaking underneath him – they hadn’t fought this hard, nor for this long, in what seemed like ages. All that he should be focused on was what was in front of him, but the nagging sensation gnawed at him; that tiny little voice that repeatedly cackled ‘ _This will end in disaster!_ ’ refused to be silenced. 

They finally caught up to Trevelyan, who stood, watching as Clarel smacked Livius around with her superior spellcraft. It seemed the Elder One’s gifts didn’t include protection from the Warden Commander herself. Quite the oversight, Dorian thought. Trevelyan’s body suddenly sunk, as his arm flew out toward the Commander. 

“ _Clarel!_ ” he screamed. She turned, but it was far too late. The Archdemon dropped from the black sky, and clenched its jaws around her body with a sickening crunch, naught but her limbs dangling out of its giant maw like a lifeless rag doll.

“ _Maker_ ,” Blackwall muttered, as the Archdemon flew off to a precipice above them, shaking Clarel’s corpse in its mouth like some sort of overgrown canine, and then flung the body from several stories above them. Trevelyan stretched a hand out, slowing her descent as much as possible with a spell, but she landed with an appalling thud nonetheless. The group of them recoiled in horror, as the Archdemon growled, perched on the edge of wall above them.

They began to back away slowly, toward the edge of the precipice that overlooked the Abyssal Rift. It seemed that their only way out was down. Dorian swallowed hard. 

The Archdemon crawled down to the bridge in front of them as they continued edging back. It slinked, its movements slow and predatory, sizing up its prey. Its eyes narrowed, and Dorian assumed that should such a creature be able to laugh, it would be positively cackling with glee. The best they could hope for was that Trevelyan made it out alive, so that he could seal the Rift within the fortress and prevent the enormous demon that lurked beyond from coming through. 

He pulled his barrier up around Trevelyan, who turned to look at him, eyes wide.

“ _What are you_ -“ 

Vivienne and Solas followed suit. _Good, they understand_. Clarel’s body stirred, as the dragon passed over her. There was no time to cast his Haste spell, or they might have made an escape. _Oh well._

Dorian watched as the dragon’s muscles coiled, as the beast readied itself to strike. If he wasn’t crushed by the monster, the fall down into the Abyssal Rift behind him would certainly finish the job.

_So much for reforming Tevinter, Pavus._

The dragon sprung forward, just as Clarel loosed an enormous bolt of lightning straight at the beast’s heart. The careful trajectory of the Archdemon was violently disrupted, as its flawless lunge was transformed into a graceless tumble. Everyone dove to the side, as the monster slid clear through the group, off the end of the bridge, its claws desperately attempting to catch a foothold as it slid over the edge, down into the Abyss. 

Dorian’s heart pounded violently in his ears; he hardly heard the crumbling of the stone. It wasn’t until he felt the ground beneath him begin to shift that he realized what was happening. 

The bridge was collapsing. And they were going to fall with it. 

Dorian heaved himself up, and began to run. Trevelyan had already gotten up, and was busy ushering them forward.

“ _Gabriel!_ ” Dorian shouted.

“ _Go!_ ” He screamed in response, as he helped Sera up, the lithe elf spewing a steady stream of ‘ _SHITE!_ ’ as she darted to safety.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Trevelyan shouted. Dorian turned over his shoulder to see Trevelyan grabbing at Stroud, who had slipped just over the precipice. Trevelyan managed to heave him up, and shoved him forward, Trevelyan bringing up the rear. The stones beneath Dorian heaved, and he leapt forward, smashing his chest into the ground and knocking the wind out of himself. 

There was absolutely no way they could outrun it. They’d be following the Archdemon into the endless crevasse. Corypheus would win. Everything they knew would be destroyed. 

Dorian heard the sound, like a gust of wind crashing into a cliff, before he felt his body being heaved up off the ground, pushed by the force of Trevelyan’s Mind Blast. As his body rose into the air, he began to flip upside down, unable to stop himself, his arms flailing wildly. In a moment, he glimpsed Trevelyan, falling back off the edge, his face strangely serene, as though he were tumbling back onto his bed at Skyhold. 

Dorian screamed, unable to articulate any words. 

He landed with a thud on his side, his shoulder screaming in agony, but not louder than the sound coming out of his mouth.

He opened his eyes, and saw the last of the stone tumble down after Trevelyan, and rolled onto his knees, skittering to the edge, as he heaved himself over, to gaze down at the Abyss below him. He watched the rock tumbling below, and swore he could make out Trevelyan, floating through the air, his robes rippling in the wind. 

_I can’t lose you._

A blinding green light illuminated the darkness of the endless chasm, and Dorian saw Trevelyan’s figure, marked arm outstretched, as he fell into the shimmering emerald tear beneath him. 

And then, it was all gone, as though it had been a figment of Dorian’s imagination, the sounds of stone crashing in the distance barely audible over the battle cries that echoed behind them.

“What happened?” Cassandra choked, her voice angry and horrified next to Dorian.

“He was right behind me… I don’t… I…” Stroud pleaded.

“The Anchor,” Solas said, his voice relatively calm. “It allowed him to open a rift.”

_He could open rifts to the Fade?_

“ _Kaffas, Solas, make some damned sense!_ ” Dorian screamed, turning back to the elf. 

“It would appear the Inquisitor has fallen into the Fade.”

Dorian turned to glance back into the abyss.

_Kaffas._

___

 

Stroud was falling. _Oh shit._ The fucking Archdemon was a contingency they hadn’t planned for. _But you should have. Even if there was hardly anything anyone could have done to stop it. After Haven, how could you forget?_

_You have forgotten. Think of all those bodies lying beneath the snow. You’re content to add to that pile?_

He pulled Stroud up, but the bridge was falling, and fast. Trevelyan shoved him forward, and he watched as the ground began to crumble. He waved a hand out to try and stabilize the stone path beneath them, but even if his powers had grown, it was moving far too fast, falling too rapidly, he couldn’t focus, _damn it all to the fucking Fade!_

He looked up. Everyone was ahead of him. Hell, Varric had already made it to safety.

_You can save them._

Time froze around him, the roaring of the Archdemon and the rumble of rock shattering underneath his feet, the sounds of fighting beyond the walls, the grunts of the Inquisition soldiers, the snapping of the Warden Mages’ spells, the wails and roars of the demons, all of it, booming into his skull.

_They don’t need you._

He wasn’t wrong. The Breach was sealed. They could figure out a way to seal the rifts without him, especially with so many of them having already been sealed. Everything after that – finding Skyhold, being named Inquisitor – well, that was just a temporary lapse in his normal fortune. Being the Inquisitor was going to kill him, one way or another. That he’d avoided death thus far had been mira- no, _not_ miraculous. 

Sure, there would be tears shed. Josephine would manage to keep it tucked away long enough to plan his memorial ceremony, but when her aides all departed, she’d allow herself to grieve his loss. In spite of Trevelyan’s lack of _finesse_ – how Josephine would put it, ever so tactfully – with the nobility, they’d grown closer in the past several months. 

And Cassandra would be sad, but she wouldn’t shed a tear. She’d lost so much already. What was one more life claimed by all this madness? The Divine, Lord Seeker Lucius, Trevelyan – all it would do would give her more impetus to defeat Corypheus. She could be the hero. She wore it much better than he did. 

But the rest of them? They’d soldier on. Vivienne would lament the tragedy, and spin it to her advantage. Not that he’d blame her – if anything, he respected her. If only he’d had half her determination, maybe he wouldn’t be here, making this decision. Maybe he’d be mourning the loss of his recently departed Duke. 

Of course, his family would attend the ceremony, and his mother would turn on the tears, bawling as though she’d lost a limb, if only to court the attention she so desperately craved. Josephine would see right through it – she, of any of them, knew about his family. She’d helped him craft an elegant, yet surprisingly curt response to his mother’s letter those months ago. He wondered if she’d be bold enough to stand up to her, to call her bluff in front of all the attendees at his funeral. If not her, well, then Dorian would have no problem doing it. 

Dorian…

_No. You can’t think about that._

He wouldn’t, were he in your shoes.

He gritted his teeth, and drew the Fade into him, tugging violently at the thick strands around him. The Veil was so thin at Adamant, like gossamer. He could practically see it glittering in the air around him, as though one quick yank and it would all come tumbling down.

_Solas would be happy. He wouldn’t need to dream to visit his friends._

I wonder if I’m one of his friends.

And in an instant, all the energy he’d gathered was expelled from him in a violent eruption, and he watched as Stroud was launched through the air, and Hawke, and Dorian and Cassandra and Blackwall. They all shot into the air, screaming at the sudden upheaval. 

Unfortunately, the spell had the effect of cracking whatever remained beneath his feet, and he felt himself slipping downward, too quickly to stop.

He looked across the group. They were safe. They’d live to fight another day. They would defeat Corypheus. He’d served his purpose. And now, he’d be their martyr, co-opted by the Chantry, twisted into their image to serve their _bullshit_ political agenda. 

_What does it matter? You’ll be dead. You never wanted to go back to the Circle. You finally got your wish._

His eyes caught Dorian’s, a look of panic etched into every line of his perfect face.

_Perfect, stupid face._

He’d stopped thinking about whether or not the Maker had sent him a long time ago. It didn’t matter, one way or the other, really. He was here, now. All these choices were his, and unless the hand of the Maker was pulling every single string along the way, he’d managed to make it this far, which was a hell of a lot further than he’d imagined he would when he woke up in that cell below the Chantry in Haven. If he weren’t falling to his death, he’d pat himself on the back. 

There were little moments when Dorian’s carefully crafted blasé exterior would crack, and he’d look at Trevelyan as though he were the Maker’s champion, having descended from on high to pull Thedas from the brink with the holy flames of his righteousness. 

Or maybe, that’s just what it looked like when someone loved you.

The Maker may not have sent Gabriel, but he was convinced that the Maker had sent Dorian. 

Gabriel always looked at Dorian that way. At least, he tried.

_It’s clearly not enough._

Dorian’s face was pained as it disappeared, Trevelyan sinking below the bridge, watching as the stones above him crumbled, chasing him down to the bottom of the Abyssal Rift.

It all was oddly calming, once his stomach started to fall with him. He’d been given his purpose, and in this moment, it had been fulfilled. He’d lived, he’d fought, he’d won, and now, he would die. He’d given more to Thedas as an individual than most families would give throughout the history of their bloodlines. 

He felt the air whipping past him as he sunk, deeper and deeper. He looked up, and for a moment, could swear Dorian’s head was poking out, just over the edge, gazing down at him. 

_No. You have to live._

For them. For him. For Thedas.

For yourself, Gabriel.

It happened so quickly. He stopped, spun around, and his arm reached forward, a brilliant green tear appearing in the chasm below him. 

_How?!_

He felt himself fall through it, enveloped in its glowing warmth, as it vanished behind him with a crack, and he found himself drowning in pitch-black darkness. 

He continued falling, unsure of where he was, or what had happened. Panic rose up within him, and he suddenly found it hard to breathe, the lack of light around him strangely cloying. His hand sparkled but illuminated nothing further than the small pocket of air around him – it gave no indication that he’d fallen into anything at all.

_Maybe you_ have _died._

It seemed like an eternity had passed, his hair whipping angrily around his face as he continued picking up speed, falling faster, harder, further, until he finally could see something emerge in the distance. 

Hard ground. Coming at him too fast.

_Oh shit. How do I stop?!_

It wouldn’t be long before he hit it, and whatever sudden impulse he had to live was made pointless. _Can’t live if you’re spread like jam on toast, across the ground of wherever the fuck this is._

Suddenly, the momentum ceased, and he felt himself jerking back, slowly, bobbing angrily like a boat in stormy waters. He shut his eyes as a wave of nausea overtook him. Down was up, and up was going to make him vomit. 

He’d stopped, and he cracked open his eyelids to peek out. The ground hovered just above his head, close enough to touch. He tentatively reached out a finger to touch the ground, and the world suddenly righted itself as he slammed into the stone below him. 

He lay there for a moment, breathing in and out.

_Fingers. Toes. Arms. Legs. You’re in one piece._

Funny how that seems almost novel.

He heaved himself up, and turned to glance upon his surroundings.

He’d thought the light of the Breach was sickly, but he’d never seen quite this shade of yellow-green before. The stone around him were twisted and rough, as though some demented architect had set everything just off-kilter. The sky above him roared, and through the mists, he could see a rift, glowing angrily in the distance. 

And beyond that, the Black City. Strange, it didn’t seem so terrifying the last time he’d been here, during his Harrowing. It was more horrifying than he’d remembered, less a city and more a graveyard, its ebony spires ominous and foreboding, evoking a dread unlike any he’d ever felt before. 

_Oh shit._

I’m in the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOOH BOY.
> 
> It's been a long time since you've been in Trevelyan's head. Hope you're excited.
> 
> I'm about to do some terrible, horrible, no good very bad things to Trevelyan during his time in the Fade. The Nightmare demon only has one target this time around, so he gets to focus his energies on really torturing the shit out of Trevelyan, and will he ever!!!
> 
> There are some cracks in the foundation of Dorian and Trevelyan's relationship, which is becoming more and more apparent, maybe. A little resentment, maybe a little restlessness. 
> 
> Can't be fluff and rainbows all the time. The honeymoon is over. And reality is about to slap everyone in the face. 
> 
> Well, now that THAT is all out of the way, I did a screen capture of Gabe. Just in case you wanted to finally put a face to a name.
> 
> I will warn you: if you already have a really good picture of Trevelyan in your head, DON'T LOOK. I don't want to ruin the image you created for yourself. This story is just as much for you as it is for me. So if you'd like to keep your version of Gabriel Trevelyan, don't click on the link! 
> 
> Without further ado:
> 
> https://40.media.tumblr.com/4d7d53d3ad7108c5bc8593d16a4a9aee/tumblr_nw2vrzDVMm1srd556o2_1280.jpg
> 
> and number two:
> 
> https://41.media.tumblr.com/111908caf6c7319b66d174d14234c521/tumblr_nw2vrzDVMm1srd556o3_1280.jpg
> 
> And my dear Ajir was kind enough to draw him. And it was beautiful and it brought tears to my cold, dead eyes.
> 
> http://trashwarden.tumblr.com/post/131837051508/a-doodle-of-farewellibras-gabriel-trevelyan
> 
> I hope I'm not shattering any dreams! 
> 
> As always, but of course, meant as deeply now as it was the first time I posted a chapter: Thank you for your comments, your kudos, your bookmarks, your subscriptions, your love, your kindness, and everything.
> 
> XOXO.


	26. The Lair of the Nightmare

_The Black City_.

Trevelyan had ventured into the Fade a number of times in his dreams, but he hadn’t seen the Black City since the night of his Harrowing. Something stirred within him when he gazed upon it, something deep and powerful, an instinctive pull, like a string that tugged him forward toward its black spires and jagged edges. What lied behind its gates? What secrets might it hold?

_If you were to sit upon the seat of the Maker, then you could circumvent Corypheus._

_No!_

Trevelyan couldn’t think such thoughts. Entering the Black City was forbidden. Knowing his luck, he’d unleash another Blight upon the world, and he has absolutely no interest in being twisted into the shape that Corypheus now took. Trevelyan’s breath caught in his chest. The pull was so strong, and from so far away. He wanted to walk through the gates.

_You’ve already ventured to the gates of the Black City once. That’s as close as you’ll ever get._

He watched, as the scene played out before him, his thoughts shaping the Fade around him, transforming it into a twisted looking glass that reflected the memories hidden in the depths of his mind.

He stood – over a decade younger, his hair long and unruly, well before he’d begun shearing the sides – at the side of a Despair Demon. 

_Your Harrowing._

“Curious, are we?” it chattered, looking back at his younger self, as its small figure floated forward. Young Trevelyan stepped to follow it, staff drawn, his posture far too lax considering he was facing a demon. But the monster hadn’t attempted to attack him; not yet, at the very least, and it was right: he was curious. He’d waited for his Harrowing; he’d been eager to travel to the Fade, to see the unseen and all the mysteries that hovered just beyond the Veil. 

And the Black City was its most famous curiosity. 

To be sure, Trevelyan had no business getting anywhere near the Black City. He wasn’t a particularly talented mage, certainly not equipped to handle a journey through the Fade and all the demons he might encounter. He should have slain the Despair Demon that now guided him upon his awakening in the Fade, and been on his merry way, but he was restless. He’d been stuck in his Circle for so long, with no possibility that he would ever be able to leave.

Why not explore what little he could? 

_Youthful naivety. Or more accurately, stupidity._

The journey was calm, fraught with about as much danger as a stroll through a pastoral village. His younger self would glance around, catching glimpses of demons lurking in the shadows. 

“Why aren’t they attacking?” his younger self asked.

“Because you are mine, child,” the demon purred, its voice like an improperly tuned violin. “They know well enough to leave me be.”

It was foolish of him to trust the demon to lead him to the Black City. But it could see inside of him, and it knew how to exploit him, to twist him to its purpose. Even in his youth, he knew that the demon had nefarious purposes and that he should be second-guessing everything it said, but its offer seemed direct enough, and easily verifiable – _I will lead you to the Black City_ – and so, Trevelyan had chosen to follow. 

Not that he even needed to utter his acceptance. The demon knew. 

The closer they walked, the darker the landscape had become, the shadow of the Black City palpable – quite literally, the fog that hung around it wrapped itself around Trevelyan’s body, leaving his skin cold and clammy – as they ventured ever closer. 

He’d marveled at the beauty of it, for tarnished and blackened as it was, he’d never seen anything quite as magnificent as the Black City in his entire life, and he was sure he’d never see anything quite like it again. The utter exquisiteness of its decay was inexplicable, but he’d since tried reasoning through it so many times. Maybe it was seeing its greatness, and knowing that it was once so much more, that made it so alluring, in whatever strange way. Maybe it was knowing it was forbidden, that made it all the more tantalizing.

_Idiot._

The demon hovered before the gates, enormous, overwrought metal that seemed to reach down to him like the claws of a millions lost souls desperate to drag him through to the other side.

“If you decide to enter, I will not follow.”

“Are you afraid?” his younger voice asked, putting on a cool air. He remembered how afraid he truly was, how much he regretted his decision. But he’d come this far, and refused to let the demon see his regret. 

_It could see right through you._

“I am not afraid. But I know better than to cross that threshold.”

Trevelyan gazed beyond the gaps in the gate, and stared down the dark streets. No light seemed to permeate the boundaries of the City itself, and eventually, everything blended together into the same black, unknowable depths. It was both attractive and repulsive: a figment, and yet all too real.

_All those contradictions should have been warning enough. You just had to see it for yourself._

“Go on. Reach out and touch it. Prove to yourself that it is real.”

Trevelyan turned to the demon, who stared at him, its face frozen in the same maniacally gleeful expression it had displayed when he’d first encountered it. He turned, and reached a hand out toward the gate, his fingers sliding over the metal and gripping it in his hand. 

He withdrew it nearly immediately, and shuddered. The demon cackled.

“Has your curiosity been sated?”

“I suppose,” he said, turning back to the demon, who hovered silently.

“You know, this is the last adventure you’ll ever go on?” the demon asked, as innocently as a demon possibly could. Trevelyan watched his younger self, attempting to steel his visage, but the hurt was apparent in his eyes. 

“You’ll never make it out of the walls of the Circle, Gabriel,” it cooed, knowingly. 

“I’ll be fine,” his younger self lied.

“You know that isn’t true.”

Trevelyan watched himself fidget uncomfortably.

“I’ll survive.”

“You deserve more than survival, don’t you?” Its voice so sweet, it was absolutely unpalatable. 

“You’re not coming back with me,” his younger voice said, cracking slightly in its attempt to sound stoic and unaffected.

“Consider the possibilities, young Gabriel. I could give you the power your need to flee the Circle.”

His younger self was silent, his eyes narrowed. 

“We both have prisons from which we’d like to escape. Without each other, we’ll both be trapped forever.”

Trevelyan felt his stomach turning as he watched his younger self chew on his lower lip. 

“Neither of wants that, my dear child. Come, take my hand. Let us return to the physical world, together. We will break free from the shackles, and the despair that consumes you so.”

The demon had misstepped. The young Trevelyan’s brow furrowed, as he turned his gaze up from the ground and at the Despair Demon, who continued to float innocuously before him. 

_You considered it. It may have been for the briefest of moments, but you considered it._

He watched his younger self raise his staff, and the Despair Demon was consumed in flames. 

“I’ll find a way,” his younger self said. It was an attempt to reassure himself, but the words rang false. “On my own.”

“You’ll die before they ever let you free!” The demon shrieked, launching one final barb as the flames licked it up. It sunk to the ground, writhing violently. It shrieked as its tiny limbs dissipated, consumed by the Fade.

His younger self stood silently for a moment, staring at the ground where the demon stood. He’d turned back, to look through the gates of the Black City once more.

A tear dripped down his cheek. He never would have made it out of the Circle, were it not for the rebellion. The Despair demon had been as effective as his namesake implied. He watched as his hand reached out for the gate once more, before stopping short. 

Even then, he knew there was no hope for a life beyond the walls of the Circle. He’d tried so hard to silence the voice of harsh reality, hoping against hope that one day he’d be able to leave. His younger self couldn’t have known then, how much his life would change. 

_But you’re still trapped. Just not in a tower._

The thought shook him, as he watched the memory dissipate around him. The feeling clutched at his throat, and he bowed his head in an attempt to calm himself. He rubbed at his temples, but the tension had gripped him. He tried to move his shoulders, but they were practically paralyzed.

_You need to get out of the Fade, now._

He managed to catch his breath quickly enough to glance up at the sky – or, what he guessed was the sky – and saw the enormous green rift in the distance.

_I wonder if that leads back to Adamant? Maybe you don’t need to travel all the way there. Maybe the Anchor can open a rift back to Thedas._

He reached his hand forward, and concentrated, trying desperately to recreate his prior feat. 

_Open. Rift. Adamant. Skyhold. Thedas. Anywhere but the fucking Fade._

Nothing. 

_Oh well. Might as well start walking._

He pushed the negative thoughts out of his head as best he could, and started forth, focusing solely on the Rift in front of him, trying desperately to keep his head clear. He didn’t need the Fade reflecting any more of his unpleasant memories.

_You need to make it back. They need you._

___

 

The Warden Mage’s barrier cracked like an eggshell. _Good._

Dorian smashed his staff into the side of her head, and watched as blood splattered across the stone. The Mage tumbled the ground, and Dorian rushed to her side, digging the blade of his staff into the Warden Mage’s skull. He pulled the blade out, as the Warden Mage’s eyes rolled up to look at him. The red glow of her eyes had begun to dim, but a spark of defiance still lingered within.

_That can be fixed._

Dorian stabbed her once more, and her eyes dropped, the red glow gone. Nothing burned behind them any more.

“You did this to yourself,” Dorian spat quietly. 

“Dorian!” Cassandra shouted. “She’s dead! That’s enough!” 

Dorian turned to look at Cassandra, as he yanked his blade from the side of the Warden’s head with a quick jerk. He spun his staff, jamming the tip into the Warden’s cheek.

“Dorian, don’t-“

The body ignited in flames. Dorian strutted forward, his robes billowing in the cold night wind, the pungent smell of the Warden’s body burning behind him filling the air. 

“That was completely unnecessary,” Cassandra frowned angrily. 

“So was cozying up to the Venatori to summon an army of demons,” Dorian replied, his tone purely venomous. “But then again, I’ve always been prone to excess.”

The Fire Mine he’d set underneath the corpse had exploded, and launched what remained of the body clean off the battlements.

_They took him. And they will pay._

___

 

So it was a mistake. A misfired spell. The Anchor, the Mark, the angry little scar that ran across the palm of his hand – it was nothing more than an accident. He wasn’t the Herald of Andraste – he’d just gone off wandering through the Temple of Sacred Ashes and stumbled onto a scheme hatched by a thousand-year-old Darkspawn Magister. Nothing more than chance had brought him to that point. 

_Your luck has always been shit._

The Divine – or, more likely, some spirit that was impersonating her – had been kind enough to explain where in the Fade he’d found himself. The lair of a demon referring to itself as ‘the Nightmare,’ a beast that was in league with Corypheus, whose power allowed it to control the Wardens, who in turn mindlessly summoned more and more demons, spilling endless rivers of blood in their quest to circumvent the Blight.

Truly a masterful plan, one that had certainly been the culmination of much effort. If he didn’t make it out of the Fade, Corypheus would have his army, and Thedas would fall. 

As the spirit of the Divine vanished, she let him know that by piecing together the fragments of his memories, the Nightmare would now be alerted to his presence. The demon was armed with his worst fears, and would most certainly use them against Gabriel.

_Would have been nice to know that beforehand._

For the master of his lair, the Nightmare hadn’t yet reared its head. He’d caught a glimpse of the monster in the rift at the center of the Main Hall of Adamant fortress, but his gaze had not lingered long. The demon had apparently grown enormous, feeding off the fears of those impacted by Corypheus’ machinations. It had been a successful partnership – Corypheus, the Venatori, and the Red Templars had delivered on their promise tenfold, and the Nightmare had returned the favor in spades as thanks for Corypheus’ hard work.

_I suppose when you’re trying to become a God, you can’t afford to slack._

He heard what sounded like menacing laughter, coming from somewhere far away, but at the same time, far too close. 

“Ah, we have a visitor,” a dark voice called, echoing around his head. Trevelyan spun around, looking off into the distance, trying to discern the location of its owner, but there was nothing more than the twisted landscape around him.

“Some silly little boy comes to steal the fear I kindly lifted from his shoulders.”

Gabriel continued searching, twisting anxiously in his attempt to pinpoint the source of the voice that haunted him.

“Show yourself, demon!”

“You should have thanked me and left your fear where it lay, forgotten,” the voice echoed. Trevelyan gasped. 

_It’s inside your head._

“You think that pain will make you stronger?” It continued, its voice a silky menace. “What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fears is me.”

“We’ll see about that,” Trevelyan grumbled. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but this was the same bravado that had permeated his interaction with the Despair Demon, all those years ago during his harrowing.

“But you are a guest here in my home, so by all means, let me return what you have forgotten.”

The voice vanished, leaving Trevelyan all by his lonesome. 

He stared off into the distance, toward the rift. Apparently, he’d have to piece together what had happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes before he was able to escape from the lair of the demon. Of course, it was the spirit impersonating Divine Justinia who’d given him that information, so who knew if any of it was true.

Still, he had to know. If there was anything to gain from this impromptu visit to the Fade, it was learning about what had actually happened by reclaiming the memories that had been robbed from him by the Nightmare. It would be refreshing to have answers, instead of holes where those answers should be.

The chattering, clicking noise of demons jolted him from his thoughts. He watched as several of the Nightmares’ sycophants descended on silvery threads, giant spider demons whose mandibles twitched readily at the thought of tearing at his flesh. And what a tasty morsel he was – the Inquisitor himself was quite a prize, one that any of the demons would be happy to claim.

He readied his staff, and drew his spectral blade from the Fade. It emerged, glorious and brilliant, with an alarming ease.

_You don’t have to draw on the Fade here. It surrounds you._

He felt the power coursing through him, and smiled. _Tearing through these lesser foes should be easy enough._

His happiness was short lived. When the spider demons approached, he recoiled in utter horror. For where their small, gruesome heads ought to be, was instead the visage of his dear mother. 

_Shit._

___

 

They’d been slaughtering demons left and right, but there seemed to be no end to the monstrosities that were pouring through the Rift at the center of Adamant.

“We killed all the Warden Mages! How are they still coming?” Bull shouted, swinging his heavy axe into the spindly legs of a Terror Demon, as it screeched angrily at him. Dorian threw his arms out, and watched as a steady stream of flames poured from a sigil that appeared in front of him, consuming the terror that lay helpless on the ground. 

“They have opened a Rift,” Solas shouted, attempted to control the crowed with well-placed walls of flame, Static Cages, and his Pull of the Abyss, to make it easier for Bull and Cassandra to cleave through them. Sera and Varric had resorted to picking off any stragglers that managed to evade Solas’ traps. “The demons here are being torn through the Veil into our world.”

“How do we stop it?” Cassandra cried, shoving a demon back into one of Solas’ Static Cages, where it was paralyzed by the coursing lightning.

“I am not certain we can,” Solas shouted. “Blood magic was used to tear open the Rift. Without the Inquisitor…” Solas’ voice tapered off. Dorian felt the searing pain again, like a knife digging into his side, as the image of Trevelyan vanishing into the Rift floated through his mind.

_Why did he push us away? We could have helped him!_

“He wanted to protect us,” Cole whispered eerily, appearing alongside him.

“At the expense of leaving us to deal with the demon army. We can’t hold out forever!” Dorian shouted as he dropped Ice Mines across the battlefield, a beautiful patchwork of traps that would eventually ensnare something. He hoped. 

He couldn’t think clearly. Gabriel was gone. _Gone._ All in the blink of an eye, vanished into the Fade once more. They’d joked about him dying, if only because the very real possibility that it would happen was too much to bear. And now, he had to face the truth. Trevelyan was gone. He’d once again found a sword to fall on, and what a sword it was. 

“He’s not dead!” Cole yelled, possibly the loudest sound that Dorian had ever heard come from his mouth. Dorian immediately stopped immolating demons, and turned to face the boy, who continued to chop the Despair Demon before him into ribbons.

“What?” He asked, his voice weak, as though it weren’t his voice asking the question at all.

“He’s distant, dark, hard to find in the folds of the Fade,” Cole said, his voice strained as he plunged his dagger into the demon one final time, watching as its little body fragmented into clouds of shimmering, frosty dust that were immediately reabsorbed by the Rift. “But I can hear him; hardly, but he is there.”

Dorian’s lip quivered relentlessly, as the tears welled up in his eyes.

_Maker, he’s alive._

“Can you discern anything else?” Vivienne shouted over the fracas, as she deflected an attack with her spectral blade, sending a wave of energy back at the wisp who’d been foolish enough to target her.

“I’m sorry,” Cole apologized quietly. “No.”

An eerie silence swept over the battlefield. For the moment, the demons had stopped pouring from the Fade. Dorian felt his stomach twisting into knots, dreading whatever lay ahead. 

“Cole,” Dorian begged, his voice shaking.

“I understand,” Cole said, his voice oddly serious.

_Maker_ , Dorian prayed silently. _Help him find his way back._

___

 

“How unfortunate,” the Nightmare cackled, “that after all these years, you’re still terrified of your mother.”

Trevelyan had stopped to catch his breath, and reestablish his bearings. His eyes searched for the Rift that rose above the nightmarish landscape.

“Fortunate for me, however.”

“Piss off,” Trevelyan muttered under his breath. He started off again, wondering what might wait him around the next turn.

He’d cut through demon after demon – each different, each taunting him, reminding him of his pain, his anguish. A Rage Demon, who’d spewed resentment at him, angrily gurgling about everything he’d been forced to sacrifice. A Desire Demon, who’d tempted him with visions of the life he’d dreamed of living. And a Despair Demon, who’d chilled him to the bone.

_Nothing has changed_ , you know, it had said.

_Everything has changed_ , he responded defiantly.

_But you still are not free. You are bound._

Trevelyan frowned. It was hard to argue with demons when they knew your heart.

_The only difference is that your cage is gilded. Everyone else will leave, but you will always be chained._

Trevelyan grimaced, as he raised his Spirit Blade.

_Dorian will lea-_

At the mere mention of Dorian’s name, Trevelyan had darted forward, cleaving the beast in two. No demon would dare sully Dorian’s name. He wouldn’t stand for it.

Of course, the Nightmare had picked up on this quickly.

_He will leave you. You know this to be true._

Trevelyan kept moving, tearing through more waves of mother-spiders. 

_However much he loves you, he will always love himself and his country more._

One of the mother-spiders had managed to avoid his Fire Mine, and was skittering toward him. He finished her – it – with bolt of lightning.

_And he will never look back._

As he traversed the twisting labyrinth, the Nightmare was kind enough to show him Dorian’s departure, in every variation that Trevelyan could imagine.

Dorian kissing him passionately, apologizing profusely as tears streamed down their faces.

Dorian shaking his head as Trevelyan screamed profanities.

Dorian turning and leaving without saying a word.

_Who knows which one will come to pass?_ The Nightmare growled. _But assuredly, one of them will._

Trevelyan kept his eyes to the ground. The terrain was too uneven to run with his eyes closed. He couldn’t bear to look at any of it, any longer. The inevitable end of their relationship played out at his sides, misty, shadowy figures shaped into their forms, they bodies intertwined, separated, their hands grabbing, pointing, shoving, waving... 

Even if he couldn’t see them, he could still hear them.

_I’m sorry. Please stay. I love you. Amatus. You don’t have to go. You know I have to leave._

Their voices blended together into a symphony that tugged at his heartstrings more than any mortal instruments could. 

He continued forward, quickening his pace, the narrow walkways that he traversed becoming more and more cloying, more populated with voices, figures, reflections of a future that was inevitable. He grabbed at his ears, desperately trying to drown out the sounds of everything coming to an end. It didn’t help. The Nightmare spoke through to his mind.

The departure you fear is not physical, my dear Gabriel. It is his heart leaving yours.

The voices screamed louder. 

_I don’t love you any more. I’ve met someone else. Someone better. Someone who understands._

Trevelyan recognized the sound of his own voice responding, but his mind had been paralyzed. Hearing his fears verbalized by the sound of Dorian’s mellifluous voice was crippling. His mind was racing too fast to focus on anything at all. 

Except for one word.

_Rilienus._

Trevelyan’s mind exploded with anger. He could hardly breathe. He stopped, shouting himself down. Allowing himself to be consumed with rage would only exacerbate the situation. He tried to keep telling himself that none of this was real, everything was an illusion, and all of it would be gone once he made it through the Rift, but Rilienus’ name floated back up to the top of his mind and he couldn’t help but feel the heat pulsating in his temples.

It had been innocuous enough. Cole had ferreted it out of Dorian months prior, during a night in the tavern.

_Skin, tan like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, lips curl when he smiles._

Trevelyan had never considered himself a particularly jealous person, but it felt like the world had shifted underneath him. It required a massive amount of concentration to swallow his mouthful of ale, while his mind pieced everything back together.

Rilienus. Someone Dorian had once cared for. Maybe even loved. 

Someone from Tevinter. Someone who understood the world as Dorian knew it to be. Someone who would be there when Dorian returned.

Maybe Trevelyan was just a long detour, an unrefined southern barbarian who’d opened the door of possibility, that something between two men could be just that – _something._

And once Dorian returned to the path that he was meant to walk, Trevelyan would be but a distant memory. 

He’d managed to swallow his own envy well enough at the time. He wasn’t proud of himself. He was far less proud when he’d mentioned the name in passing to Leliana. He knew what she would do with it. Track down the man, learn everything she could about him, compile a dossier thicker than the Chant of Light, and tuck it away somewhere for safekeeping.

A thousand secrets. A thousand lies. And Trevelyan had added to the pile. 

He’d never asked her to see it, even if he knew it was there. Even if he’d love nothing more than to tarnish the _finely tanned_ image in Dorian’s mind. He wasn’t sure what made him more nauseated: his own pathetic reaction to Dorian’s past, or that he’d managed to lead the Inquisition to a point where such information was well within his grasp. 

_Both. Definitely both._

He’d been running for so long, the figures and voices so dense, he was convinced he’d never escape this path, let alone the Fade. He screamed, in an attempt to overpower the sound. But they just got louder. He kept his eyes to the ground. His feet slammed angrily. One step after another. He pushed through the figures. They appeared again. He screamed louder. It wouldn’t stop. It had to end. _Maker. Please._

He broke free, stumbling and falling into a open clearing. He smashed into the ground, his hands scraping against the hard surface, tearing his gloves, his ribcage rocking inside of his chest. In spite of his efforts to protect his head, it dipped forward and smacked against the cold stone. His mind reeled. 

_No. Shit. Shit, shit, SHIT!_

He tried to keep his eyes open, and grabbed the back of his head, working as much healing magic as he could through himself. The jolt was sudden and jarring – he’d never been particularly good with healing magic, and head injuries required focus, concentration. Generally, it was best if someone else was the one working the healing spell over your head, but these were less than ideal circumstances. Combined with the fact that the Fade coursed plentifully around him, the spell was stronger than he anticipated, and it worked a little too well. He wanted to vomit, but he had absolutely nothing to expel from his stomach.

“Get up,” the Nightmare called to him. 

“Leave me be!” he gurgled, his mouth dripping with saliva.

“You have a decision to make, and not much time to make it.”

Trevelyan looked up, his eyes attempting to focus. A swarm of demons were circling before him, but not around him. Two figures stood in the middle of the circle, shadowy and unclear. Trevelyan squinted angrily, trying desperately to bring the picture into focus.

It was Hawke and Stroud, back-to-back, weapons drawn, standing tall against the horde.

“For an Inquisitor, you loathe making the hard choices that are necessary to move the Inquisition forward,” the Nightmare purred. “If you are so convinced that your suffering will bring you strength, then suffer this: only one of them will live.”

“None of this is real,” Trevelyan gasped, straining to heave himself up. “This is all an illusion.”

“It is very real, I assure you. I am the one controlling the demons at Adamant. Now, choose.”

“I can’t!” Trevelyan shouted. He’d made it to his knees. He couldn’t seem to stop his legs from shaking. _Get the fuck up!_

“Then they will both die.”

Trevelyan saw the demons spiral forward, swooping down upon the Warden and the Champion. He gritted his teeth and threw himself toward the pair, desperate to dispel the twisted image before him. 

“ _HAWKE!_ ” he shouted, reaching his hand out for her. 

But as the demons descended, they darted past her, as though they didn’t even notice she was there. Instead, they piled upon Stroud, covering him in their fangs and claws. Trevelyan made it to them just as Stroud vanished beneath the pile, and it all vanished around him, the figures of Hawke and Stroud and all the demons turned to black vapor that escaped his hands, puffing through his fingers. 

He fell to the ground again, his ears filled with the laughter of the Nightmare, and Stroud’s final screams ringing through his ears. 

_It’s not real. It can’t be real._

He kept repeating it over and over.

It didn’t help.

___

 

Screams were coming from the battlements. He’d just seen Hawke and Stroud fighting there before, with everything seemingly under control. A battalion of Inquisition soldiers were charging, a Templar and a mage in tow, desperately trying to reach the end of the path.

“What happened?” Sera called, as she fired an arrow into the side of Terror demon. It turned to look at her, as Blackwall rolled underneath it, burying his axe in its thigh, snapping off its overlong, emaciated leg with one swoop. 

“I don’t know; I can’t see!” Dorian shouted. 

“Is it Hawke?” Varric called, attempting to steal a glance as he placed several traps around him. 

“Is Stroud with her?” Blackwall shouted, blocking the claws of the Terror Demon, planting an axe in its mouth as its screams were reduced to guttural grunts, which only persisted for a few moments longer.

“ _I. Don’t. Know!_ ” Dorian shouted, waving his staff in front of him, as a Fire Wall rose before him, moving forward to consume the several Shades that had recently emerged from the Rift. 

_Please hurry, Amatus._

___

 

He’d managed to pry himself off the ground, and stumble forward, to the figure of the Divine, who again presented him with more memories.

He’d escaped the Fade, thanks to the spirit that floated, glowing like fire before him.

It was never Andraste. It was a small comfort, something that helped him focus. Now, he had answers. Answers that Cassandra and Leliana would want to hear. He had to make it back to them, if only to give them this final sense of peace.

Divine Justinia had died at the Conclave. Her physical body, perished with the rest of the men and women there. But was it all so simple? 

_Are you… her? Did you linger here to help me, instead of passing on?_

_If that is the story you wish to tell, it is not a bad one._

Apparently, it was. 

The spirit floated away, and Trevelyan stood alone, the Nightmare’s realm quiet for a moment. He tried to calm his breathing, looking up to the Rift. It was closer, but somehow seemed even further away. 

He turned his head down and gagged violently, before vomiting on the ground before him. It was nothing more than saliva and bile, but it burned his throat terribly, and the harsh cough that followed only served to make it worse. 

_You have to keep going._

“Do you think you can fight me? I am your every fear come to life!” 

_He’s back._

“I am the veiled hand of Corypheus himself!”

_This isn’t going to end._

“The demon army you fear? I command it. They are bound all through me!” 

Trevelyan thought of the faces of those who waited beyond the Veil for him. He thought of Sera’s boisterous laughter filling the tavern. Varric’s endless complaints, mumbled in between bolts fired from Bianca. Cassandra’s brow furrowing as she tried to hide the most recent copy of _Swords and Shields_. Josephine’s nose wrinkling after her first sip of hot tea as she pored over endless communiqués. Bull’s growl as he swung his blade on the battlefield. Solas’ quiet focus as he painted a new mural on the wall. How Dorian smelled when he woke up in the morning.

_You have to get out._

“You will fail them all. Corypheus will succeed, and he will break each of them before your eyes.”

Trevelyan didn’t even bother responding. There was nothing that needed to be said. He could only imagine what the Nightmare would show him next.

He didn’t have to wonder long.

Vivienne, vivisected, her limbs splayed out as demons feasted upon her insides. Her head turned toward him. She’s still alive. He felt his stomach roil once more. 

“ _Help… me…_ ” she groaned.

He wasn’t sure what was more horrifying – the violent image before him, or the fact that Vivienne was asking for help.

He started to run forward toward the Rift. Sera emerged before him, gaunt and sickly, her eyes blank as she babbled nonsense, her hands reaching out to clutch at his chest. He shoved past her – through her, as she was nothing more than an apparition – and kept going

_You can save them._

Cassandra was being flogged repeatedly by a group of Venatori. Her back was raw, streaked with blood. Gabriel was sure he could see the white of her bones. They’d broken her stern countenance, and tears dripped down her cheeks.

Blackwall, or the body of what used to be Blackwall, staggered forth. He’d been transformed; the Blight coursed through him, and he’d become Darkspawn. 

_But how?!_

Several Shades had been alerted to his presence, and shrieked as they snaked forward, their arms outstretched toward him. It was foolish of them, really. 

In the physical world, pulling the Fade through the Veil was like pumping water from a well; a labor, to say the very least. The Anchor had made this task far simpler, giving him a connection to the Fade that he’d never experienced before. But here, in the Fade, it was as though he’d been dropped in the middle of an ocean, its currents deep and powerful. All he had to do was lift his hand, and the seas would rage at his command.

So he did. With naught but a wiggle of his fingers, the Shades were consumed in flame, immediately incinerated. 

The power would have been intoxicating, if he’d had the time to ponder it. 

Bull’s figure growled at him as he passed, more beast than man, the madness that he’d finally feared having taken him. 

_You can’t let this happen._

Scout Harding was strung up in a tree, as ravens pecked her eyes out. 

_None of this is real._

Solas stared blankly at him, a Sunburst seal imprinted on his forehead.

_You can stop this._

Varric was being consumed by the red lyrium that seemed to grow out of every pore.

_None of this is real._

A demon writhed before him. The demon was once the spirit he knew as ‘Cole.’

_None of this is real._

Three pikes held up the heads of Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine, all frozen in looks of horror, their mouths rounded. All three of them were still screaming. The mists that surrounded them cleared, and thousands of pikes appeared behind them, the heads of the Inquisition soldier, the scouts, the diplomats, the mages, the Templars, all screaming in unison, long parted from their bodies, a haunting chorus of thousands of voices that drilled into Trevelyan’s skull.

He broke out into a Fade Step, charging through the forest of heads, their screams warped by his speed into a horrifying, sickening chorus. It seemed as though it would never end. He ran as fast as he could, but it was not fast enough. 

_Keep focusing. In front of you. Don’t look up. Don’t listen to anything but your voice._

Through the haze, the Nightmare’s laughter was clear. It was inescapable.

He finally saw the end, as Trevelyan broke free of the pikes, the screams slowly growing silent behind him.

He finally stopped, falling to his knees to catch his breath, his pulse pounding in his ears. His head ached. His eyes twitched behind their lids, and his mouth was dry . The taste of vomit still lingered on his tongue. His chest heaved with effort, but no amount of air seemed to sate his lungs.

He looked up, and saw a dark figure moving toward him. He squinted, trying to make it out. It wore a sharp hood and black robes, with armored pauldrons that spiked menacingly. Its steps were confident, secure, almost _arrogant._

_Maker, please._

The figure became clearer, and its hands reached up to remove its hood.

“Hello, _Amatus_.”

_No._

Trevelyan sighed, his heart beating angrily within his chest. He stood up, to stand at even height with the impostor.

“You’re not Dorian,” Trevelyan said, his voice shaking.

“You’re right,” he purred, his voice an exact replica of Dorian’s velvety tone, but the feeling behind it was different. Something black and sinister lurked behind its words. “At least, I’m not the Dorian you remember.”

Trevelyan arched an eyebrow, wondering what this apparition was getting at. It began to move toward him.

“You see, upon my return to Tevinter, I paid my father a visit.”

Trevelyan swallowed hard.

“Little did I know that my father had struck an alliance with the Elder One. _Master_ Corypheus provided my father with the means to help me… see clearly, for once in my life.”

He’d moved closer, and Trevelyan could finally see his eyes. The beautiful blue-grey irises now glowed a dark red.

“The blood magic ritual…” Trevelyan muttered, horrified. 

“Looking back, it all seems so petty. Father only wanted what was best for me; I understand that now. He helped me reclaim my place within the world: ruling the masses, in service to the Elder One, leading Tevinter to her former glory.”

He felt the chill run down his spine. _This is not Dorian. Dorian is back in the physical world._

“Is there any part of you that still remains?” Trevelyan asked quietly.

“Oh, maybe a lingering fragment here or there, a twinge of emotion or an inexplicable reaction, but the ritual that father performed couldn’t possibly have accounted for every little thing,” he chuckled, waving his hand through the air. “His only concern was that I come to accept the mantle of my responsibilities – assume his place in the world, and produce an heir for House Pavus.”

Another figure began to materialize out of the ether, smoldering as it approached Dorian’s side. A woman, with raven hair and eyes like jade, her skin tanned and immaculate, swathed in a gown that did little to hide her protruding belly. She wrapped her arm around Dorian’s waist, and leaned into his shoulder, her other hand grasping at Dorian’s.

“This is Livia. The mother of my child.”

She smiled, and her face seemed almost serpentine; the grin of a viper who wanted its prey to see its fangs. She tilted her head up, and looked into Dorian’s eyes. He leaned down, and greeted her lips with his own.

Trevelyan’s heart exploded in his chest. His teeth gnashed angrily, as he tried desperately to remind himself that none of this was real. He was furious. But none of this had come to pass. _Fuck Halward._ He could save Dorian. _And this… this whore!_

He couldn’t hear his own thoughts. He felt the sensation of his hand clenching down upon his staff. 

They continued kissing, a sick and profane expression of a love that wasn’t really there. 

_That’s how he kisses you._

Trevelyan did everything he could to suppress his screams. 

They pulled apart from each other, smiling as they gazed into each other’s eyes. 

Their bliss was short lived, as a bolt of lightning tore Livia’s head clean off her neck, her body twisting back into the shape of the Desire Demon who’d emulated her form. 

The false Dorian stared in shock, as his gaze turned back to Trevelyan.

“ _I killed your whore_ ,” Trevelyan growled, his eyes burning as his lungs heaved in his chest. He began to move forward.

Dorian began to launch spell after spell at him, a fireball, a bolt of lightning, a chunk of ice, all in a desperate attempt to stave off Trevelyan. Gabriel continued his march unobstructed, deflecting each spell without any effort at all. He felt his spectral blade materialize in his hand. He’d gotten close now, close enough to see the look of fear working its way across the impostor’s face. Just a few more steps to close the gap, as the demon released a final stream of fire. Trevelyan shrugged off the assault, as though it were nothing more than just a gust of wind.

He dug the blade deep into the impostor’s gut, and watched as Dorian’s perfect features arranged themselves into an expression of pain. He felt the blood dripping, hot against his fingers. 

“You are not him,” Trevleyan murmured. The impostor’s eyes blinked back tears.

“ _Amatus_ ,” the voice whispered. Trevelyan’s head snapped up. Everything about it was different – this was the voice that Trevelyan knew. He glanced into the eyes of his foe, and watched as the red drained out, replaced by the blue-grey he remembered.

“Dorian?” he gasped, in spite of himself. The spectral blade vanished, and the imposter fell forward, into his arms.

“I’m finally free,” he sputtered, his arms reaching around Trevelyan’s shoulders. “ _Thank you, Amatus_.”

“I’m sorry,” Trevelyan whispered. He could feel the tears spilling down his cheeks. _It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real._

“I should never have returned to Tevinter. I should have remained by your side.”

“It’s all right,” Trevelyan murmured, as he sank to his knees, still clutching the impostor’s body in his arms.

“You only wanted to keep me safe, and I…” he coughed, and blood splattered against Trevelyan’s robes. “… I was just too proud to listen.”

_This is not Dorian. It’s a demon impersonating him. None of this is real._

None of the mantras stopped the tears.

“I’m sorry, Amatus.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

“I love you.”

And with that, the body fell limp in Gabriel’s arms. 

The Nightmare knew that the deepest, darkest fears that lay in the hearts of mortals were not the ones that made you cower, or scream, or run. Those were nothing more than base reactions. The true fears were the ones that left you unable – to move, to think, to feel anything at all – and holding Dorian’s dying body in his arms, however well he might know that it wasn’t Dorian bleeding out in his lap, Trevelyan couldn’t help himself any longer. He sat there, cradling the corpse in his lap, as the tears streamed down his face and the sobs rocked his body.

For even if he escaped the Fade, Dorian would return to Tevinter. Maybe not immediately, maybe not for years, but he would return. And Halward would be there, waiting for him.

_He’ll only be yours for but a few moments longer. You won’t be able to protect him, once he leaves your side._

_The Inquisitor’s reach only extends so far._

_And you’ll lose him. To death, to blood magic, to Rilienus, to time, to distance, whatever it might be._

_You will lose him._

He screamed, as the laughter of the Nightmare enveloped him.

___

 

It was endless.

The demons kept tearing through the Veil. Dorian wasn’t sure if there would be any left in the Fade, as many as they’d managed to slaughter. 

Stroud had been killed. Torn apart by the demons. Hawke had tried to stop them, but they were too numerous, too vicious. One woman could not stand against the horde, not even the Champion of Kirkwall.

_Too bad they missed her._

They were all fatigued. Sera’s usually zippy pace had slowed to a light jog. Varric didn’t have the energy to shout complaints above the fray. Cassandra was being pushed back further each time she blocked a blow with her shield. 

They wouldn’t be able to last for much longer. 

Maybe Trevelyan had died. Maybe whatever Cole was sensing was a piece of Trevelyan that lingered. Maybe the Anchor had remained behind, returned to the Fade where it belonged, as Trevelyan departed to the beyond. He always did have a hard time reading Trevelyan. 

The way things were going, it was more than possible that they all would join Trevelyan soon enough.

As long as they were reunited. 

Dorian had some things he needed to get off his chest, and in this world or the next, Trevelyan needed to hear them.

_Ass._

___

 

The Divine had pulled him from Dorian’s corpse, as unwilling as he was to budge.

_None of it matters._

_You cannot mire yourself in sorrow. They are waiting for you, just beyond the Rift. Do not allow your despair to trap you here._

_I’m trapped wherever I go._

_Do not believe the lies of the Nightmare. It will use everything it has in its arsenal against you. You must overcome._

_Why?_

_There are many reasons. For Thedas, for the Inquisition, for those you love. But most important of them all: you must overcome them for yourself._

Trevelyan had finally opened his eyes, and looked down at the corpse in his lap, which had returned to its original shape – a Desire Demon, its face frozen in a twisted smile, the perverse pleasure of having stabbing one final knife into his heart – and Trevelyan threw it off his lap in shock, as the body bounced along the ground, vanishing into the Fade.

_Come. You must be strong._

_I’m done being strong._

_You give yourself too little credit._ She rested a hand on his shoulder. _Come._

Trevelyan wiped his eyes, and heaved himself up off the ground.

_How much further?_

_The lair of the Nightmare is nearby. You will be free of this place soon._

They started off, the Spirit glowing by his side as they made their way through a flooded cavern. Trevelyan caught sight of the exit, and the hulking demon that lay just beyond.

It teetered on what appeared to be tens – no, hundreds – of legs, and it had just as many eyes. Its skin was mottled and fleshy, like that of a recently deceased human. Stringy, scraggly hairs appeared sparsely around its… face? Trevelyan couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Not that he wanted to. He felt it: this beast, this abominable terror, was the Nightmare.

And it was time to face him.

He stepped into its lair. A smaller Fear demon lurched forward, its spindly, spider-like legs twitching eagerly at the sight of the Inquisitor. He could sense a fragment of the Nightmare within it. A henchman? Or a piece of the whole? He drew his spectral blade.

For as strong as he was, he wasn’t certain that he would be able to fell the beast. Not even with the Fade surrounding him.

The Divine placed a hand on his shoulder.

“If you would, please tell Leliana, ‘I am sorry. I failed you, too.’”

She floated forward, before transforming into a blinding light. Trevelyan shielded his eyes, and when he opened them, the Nightmare had vanished.

_Had she…?_

The Fear Demon before him shrieked loudly, reminding Trevelyan of its presence.

It never stood a chance.

Trevelyan dove forward, stunning the beast with a lightning bolt, as he severed the demon’s left arm with a quick swipe of his blade. The demon shrieked, and turned back to him, winding his remaining limb back to strike him. 

It was too slow. Trevelyan pierced the beast with his blade, clean through its chest, and twisted it, hearing the demon’s pained cries.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Trevelyan growled. He sent a bolt of energy through the demon, and watched it writhe as the lightning coursed through its body. The amount of power that he was commanding could have easily killed a small army. And he was channeling every ounce into destroying the demon before him. His eyes bulged out of his head, his teeth gritted, as the demon screeched, only inches from his face. 

_I’ll give_ you _something to be afraid of._

He didn’t see the demon’s claw until it was far too close to react properly. He turned his head just in time to avoid its claw from digging into his eye. It hit him just above his eyebrow and he felt the sharp finger dig into his flesh. He screamed at the searing pain, and felt the claw trace a semicircle around his eye socket, down his cheekbone. 

He pushed everything he had forward, and watched as the lightning that surged through the demon caused its body to spasm wildly, its claw jolting back away from his face, as it shuddered violently. It shrieked one final time, as it died.

It sunk forward on his blade, and its head fell onto Trevelyan’s shoulder. 

The spectral blade vanished. Trevelyan shoved the body off of him, and ignited it, watching as it was licked up in flames.

He looked up. The Rift was so close. 

He burst forth into a Fade Step. He didn’t want to waste a single moment lingering in the Fade any longer. 

He’d been in love with the idea of the Fade. He’d talked with Solas for hours about the spirits he’d encountered, the memories he’d experienced, the wonders that lay just behind the Veil. He’d promised himself to study it more when he’d had the opportunity, and had borrowed some of Solas’ books on the subject, but had found precious little time to read them. He’d joined Solas in the Fade, several times, to meet spirits that reflected ancient knowledge, or to explore ancient ruins, much to the joy of the mysterious elf.

It had never looked like this. And now… he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to go back.

The Rift hovered before him, the path clear and unobstructed. 

Until a leg slammed down into the ground before him. And another. And several more thereafter.

The Nightmare wasn’t about to let him go so easily.

He weaved through the legs at a breakneck pace, as the Nightmare growled and spat, attempting to halt his charge. But he wouldn’t be kept any longer. 

Gabriel had no interest in saving himself, or anyone else for that matter. He just wanted it all to be over. He had to get out of the Fade. 

A leg appeared in the path before him, and in an instant, he vanished in a Fade Cloak, passing through it, continuing his Fade Step clean through the beast. It screeched when it realized that Trevelyan would escape, and nothing it could do would keep him.

Trevelyan turned back for an instant, and glared up at the monster above him. He reached a hand out.

“Sweet dreams.”

The beast erupted into flames, screeching loudly as it burned. Sure, the spell wasn’t enough to destroy it, and it was completely unnecessary, but if he could make the Nightmare feel even a fraction of the pain that it had inflicted upon him, then it was worth it. 

He turned forward. The Rift was before him. He dove through.

The Fade vanished behind him, and he fell forward, landing on one knee. He glanced around.

Adamant was still lousy with demons. He caught Cassandra out of the corner of his eye, whose face broke into a smile when she realized what had emerged from the Rift. 

“The Inquisitor!” 

The demon that she was attacking had barreled down upon her, and she lifted her shield to block it, but it had caught her off guard. She went down, hitting the ground.

_End this._

Trevelyan lifted his hand, the Anchor gleaming like the moon in the night sky. The Fade still clung to him, thick and heavy, and he released its power, as Adamant was bathed in green light, the Mark of the Rift stretching out across the battlefield, seeping into every nook and cranny. The demons that populated the fortress were ripped to shreds, the magic pulling them away, back to the Fade.

He turned, and went to work, the Anchor connecting to the Rift, as it attempted to resist his efforts. He could almost hear the Nightmare screaming beyond, its plans foiled by the Inquisitor. 

He’d gotten acclimated to the sensation of sealing a Rift, but something about this Rift was raw. His hand ached, the Anchor vibrating in his palm, as he watched the Rift stitch itself back together, before giving it one final tug, as the Rift exploded into nothingness, the Anchor having performed its purpose once more.

_The Anchor. Not you._

The green light that had surrounded them vanished, having taken the demons with it.

A calm silence washed over the fortress, as everyone took stock of what had just happened. The demons were gone. The Rift was closed. The Wardens weren’t attacking. 

The soldiers burst into raucous cheers.

Trevelyan stood, numb to their joy, his eyes focused on the ground before him. Solid. Even. _You’re back. This is real. Everything will be fine._

His hands were shaking violently. He couldn’t will it away. Not that he had much will left; his mind screamed furiously, unable to process everything. Thoughts floated up sporadically, and when he tried to grab onto one, to help himself find some sense of balance, it vanished before he could even reach out for it.

He balled his fists up, feeling the nubs of his nails digging into his palms, so deep that they felt like daggers. He’d probably drawn blood.

_At least you can feel something._

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra called out, running to him. “You are alive! Thank the Maker!”

“What happened,” Solas appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, “in the Fade?”

Trevelyan looked down at the elf. His expression was inscrutable, some strange mixture of fear and pity and sadness and curiosity.

“I…” he started, his voice betraying him. _Steel yourself, Inquisitor_. “I stopped the demon. The Nightmare. Denying Corypheus his demon army.”

“You’re doing a terrible job of convincing people that you aren’t being guided by the Maker,” Varric said. 

“It’s not… they should know the truth.”

“And what is that truth, darling?” Vivienne asked. “What exactly occurred in the Fade?”

Trevelyan’s mouth went dry, and his hands clasped together as he nervously twisted his fingers around each other. He tried to find his voice, but it had left him. 

“They don’t need to know the truth,” a voice called out. He turned, and saw Hawke moving toward them, her arm outstretched to the soldiers who stood at attention. “Let them have their story.”

“Hawke!” he called. “Is Stroud…?”

She turned he head downward, and looked back up at him.

“He died. The demons swarmed him. I couldn’t stop them.”

_Fuck._

His mind reeled. He’d gotten Stroud killed. He made the choice, however unwillingly, and Stroud had perished because of his foolishness.

_One more life lost. One more corpse on the pile. All because of you._

“Inquisitor,” a scout stepped forward. “The Archdemon flew off as soon as you disappeared. The Venatori Magister is unconscious, but alive. Cullen thought you might wish to deal with him yourself.”

Trevelyan tried to process the information, but his mind was impenetrable. The past few hours continued to reverberate through his mind, as though they’d been sped up by Dorian’s time magic. _Dorian. Where is Dorian?_

“As for the Wardens, those who weren’t corrupted helped us fight the demons.”

A Warden, clad in armor, bowed before him. “We stand ready to help make up for Clarel’s… tragic mistake.”

Trevelyan stared blankly at him. If he’d been able to think clearly – or at all – he might have some choice words for the Wardens, for all of their foolish decisions, for all that they put him, personally, through – not to mention the part they played in Corypheus’ schemes, due in large part to the organization’s insularity. 

“Inquisitor, we have no one left of any significant rank. What do we do now?”

If Gabriel had any sense left, he might have made a choice in that moment, based on everything that had transpired at Adamant and within the Fade. He might have told the Wardens to flee to Weisshaupt, and leave Southern Thedas alone to sort out the mess that they had created. 

But Trevelyan had nothing. He tried desperately to still his mind, and remembered that he’d wanted to save them, before any of this had happened. The words came out of his mouth, but they didn’t feel like his, as though he were a puppet being manipulated by someone else’s hand.

_That’s all you are, anyway. It shouldn’t seem too novel._

“You will stay, and do whatever you can to help.”

A silence fell over the group, as everyone around him considered his words. He sighed, and pushed forth another sentence.

“Stroud died for the ideals of the Wardens. In war, victory. And we are still at war.”

“They are still vulnerable to Corypheus, and possibly his Venatori,” Cassandra interjected, her tone markedly frustrated.

“But there are plenty of demons that need killing,” Blackwall reminded her. 

“While they do that, I’ll inform the Wardens at Weisshaupt what’s happened. Best they not get caught off guard.”

Trevelyan nodded, glad that he didn’t need to speak another word. 

“Thank you, your worship. We will not fail you.”

He turned back toward Hawke, and caught a glimpse of Dorian. He turned his eyes away quickly, focusing intently on the Champion. 

Funny, how he was reacting now. Outside of himself, he’d thought he’d be throwing himself at Dorian, holding him, kissing him, glad that he was indeed alive and not dead, not subsumed by blood magic, or whatever other tragic fate he’d imagined, that the Nightmare had preyed upon. But somehow, the distance between them felt even more pronounced and palpable, and Trevelyan wasn’t ready to take a leap over that gap. 

“Good luck with your Inquisition,” Hawke chimed, smirking at him, though her eyes were still filled with sadness. _You killed her friend._ “Try not to start an Exalted March on anything.”

She began to walk away, and turned over her shoulder. “And take care of Varric for me.”

Trevelyan nodded, his eyes suddenly misty. He pushed it away. He couldn’t let the troops see his weakness. 

He turned, desperate to leave the fortress. The Inner Circle closed ranks. He could feel Dorian’s presence behind him, but the mage hadn’t spoken a word since he’d returned to the physical world. They walked quickly through the fortress, moving toward the front gates. _Keep it together. You’ve made it out. You’ve won the day._

“What happened? You are injured. Were you attacked in the Fade?” Cassandra asked. Trevelyan looked at her, trying desperately to hide the pain in his eyes. He opened his mouth, to try and give her some sort of explanation, but no words would come. He turned his head down to the ground in front of him. He turned, and saw several gates between him and the exit. He could either continue the winding path through the fortress, or he could- 

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra asked, her eyes full of concern.

_I can’t do this._

He turned, and pulled a Fade Cloak around him, stepping through the wrought iron gates, leaving the Inner Circle behind. He heard their voices calling after him, but his mind was far too occupied to discern their words. He continued marching through the Fortress, straight to the front gates, phasing through whatever stood in his way. The tremors in his hands wouldn’t subside, and they ached with the effort it took to keep them balled in fists. 

He kept walking, faster now, his pace a nervous jog. Inquisition soldiers cheered as he passed. He did not respond, nor did he look away from the ground in front of him. He just kept moving, trying desperately to keep his features arranged properly.

The gate was before him. 

“Inquisitor!” Cullen called, smiling warmly at him. “Thank the Maker you’re alive.”

“I need a horse.”

“What?” Cullen asked. “Why?”

“I just need to get back to camp. I can’t… I just need a horse.”

It was all he could manage. He wanted to hide himself away from the world, from everything, and pretend like none of it ever existed, like none of it ever had happened. Maybe, he’d wake up back in the Circle, as though none of this ever happened. 

Funny, how the Circle seemed preferable to this madness. 

“I serve a living God!” a voice rose up, gurgling and heavy, but arrogant. Gabriel turned, and saw a soldier and a Templar carting Erimond off, dragging him from under his arms. His hands were chained behind his back. He caught sight of Trevelyan, and spat. 

Gabriel moved quickly, placing himself in the path of the Magister. The soldier and the Templar pushed him forward, and as he pulled himself up on his knees, Erimond laughed.

“You have no authority over me. Truth lies in the next world.”

Trevelyan glared down upon him.

“Bring down your blades, and free me from the physical. Glory awai-“

Erimond couldn’t finish his sentence, for Trevelyan had materialized his spectral blade, clean through Erimond’s mouth, as it emerged glowing from the back of his head. He sputtered, a sick, gurgling noise, as his eyes rolled up to face Trevelyan.

“You asked,” Gabriel growled quietly, as the Magister’s eyes widened in terror. 

The soldier had recoiled in horror. Trevelyan yanked his sword, tearing through the rest of Erimond’s flesh, the blade gleaming as it cut through the side of his head and vanished back to the Fade.

Erimond fell to his side, dead.

“Burn the body,” Trevelyan commanded, his voice quavering. He turned back to Cullen.

“I need a horse.”

Cullen stared at him for a moment, his eyes shocked and confused. He nodded. 

“All right.”

It didn’t take long for a scout to arrive on the back of a steed. He dismounted quickly, and motioned to Trevelyan.

“Your Worship.”

He climbed up on the horse, finally unclenching his fists to grab hold of the reins, as he kicked into its sides. It began to canter forward, hesitant to break out into a run in the crowd.

“Clear a path!” he shouted over the cheers of the crowd, and the sea of people parted before him. He kicked his horse harder again, and it hesitantly broke out into a slow gallop.

When he finally broke free from the group, from the siege equipment and the soldiers who wouldn’t move out of the _fucking_ way, he kicked once more, leaning into the cool night wind as the steed burst into a full gallop, quickly tearing across the desert, the moon shining above him, the whole world around him a blur of rich blues and shimmering silver. It wouldn’t take too long to make it to camp. 

He would have plenty of time, alone with his thoughts.

He felt the cold numbness of the night creeping into his heart, and it chilled him to his core. The thoughts that had flown through his mind stilled, slowed, stopped, all blending together, into an enormous glacier, a frozen mountain of terror that loomed over him. 

A mountain he may never be able to surmount. Tonight, the task was impossible. 

It took what felt like hours to make it back to the campsite, but it couldn’t have been anywhere near that long. He’d spent the better part of his ride trying desperately to clear his mind, to rationalize his experience in the Fade, to find some miraculous thought or insight that would wipe all of his anguish away, but apparently, getting out of the Fade was miracle enough for one evening.

He dismounted rapidly, and didn’t bother waiting to hand the reins to any of Cullen’s troops.

He marched through the camp, easily catching sight of his ridiculously overlarge tent, and made his way there are quickly as possible. The soldiers who passed stared at him, befuddled and confused, as he trod past them.

“Excuse me, your Worship?” 

Trevelyan ignored him, as he brushed through the flaps of his tent and immediately phased out of his clothes, tucking under the covers of his bedroll in one jittery motion, pulling them tight to his face, as he shuddered beneath them.

He closed his eyes, and it all came flooding back – the Nightmare, the mother-spiders, Stroud, the Inner Circle, the Inquisition, Dorian...

He gasped involuntarily. 

“Excuse me, your Worship.”

The same soldier from before. Outside of his tent. Trevelyan wanted nothing more than to get up, push past the flaps, and jam his spectral blade into the idiot’s neck. 

“What?!” he growled.

“I’m sorry sir, it’s just… did we… did we win?” 

Trevelyan felt the tears. He braced his throat, so his voice would not waver. 

“We won,”

“Oh, that is wonderful news, your Worship! Thank you, your Worship!”

And with that, the soldier turned, screaming to the rest of the men stationed at the camp, letting them know that the Inquisition had been victorious.

Trevelyan made a mental note, which would certainly be lost in the shuffle of his mind, that he would speak to Cullen and insure that this particular cadet was kept as far away from him as possible for the foreseeable future. Sent off somewhere comfortable – close to his family, so it wouldn’t seem like he was being punished – but far enough away where his lack of sense would not be a bother to Gabriel any longer. 

Of course, the anger was unjustified, but he held on to it with all his might. Anger was better than fear, better than any of the emotions he’d felt that evening. He tried to keep his brow furrowed, his teeth clenched, his blood boiling, but it all melted away when he imagined the laughter of the Nightmare, haunting him still.

_You should have talked to them. You should have said something, anything. You could have lied, told them you were fine. They don’t need to suffer, just because you are._

He whispered, the words of a spell he’d learned in the Circle, and felt the Fade whirl around his tent, pressing against the fabric, a silencing spell so that none beyond would hear anything that happened inside.

He loosed the dam, and sobbed into his bedroll, wailing angrily into the darkness. 

Dorian did not come to bed that night

It was a small relief. 

By the time that Gabriel had exhausted himself, when there were no more tears left to cry and his throat was raw, he finally felt sleep tugging at him.

He prayed he would not dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOMPH.
> 
> I'm sorry, but this chapter had to be done. Had to take some of the shine off Trevelyan, AND HOW! 
> 
> I don't want to say too much (I think the chapter said enough), other than you'll get some of Dorian's perspective, and where he ended up spending his night in the next chapter. 
> 
> As always, my loves, thank you for your kind comments, your kudos, your bookmarks, subscriptions, FAN ART (!!!!) and the general good karma you all send my way. I feel it (across oceans, sometimes!) and it makes all the difference. 
> 
> XOXO


	27. The Fade Still Lingers

“Inquisitor?”

Trevelyan rolled over. Cassandra’s head was poking through his tent. He groaned lowly, and picked his hands up to rub his eyes. By the time he’d managed to fall asleep, he could see the light of the sun bleeding through the tent. 

He slid his hands across his face, and felt the caked blood around his left eye. 

The Fear Demon.

He felt the shudder ripple through his body.

Cassandra had taken Trevelyan’s sudden movement as an invitation to enter his tent. He rifled through his bag furiously, as she kneeled by his side. 

“Are you… how are you?”

He continued to rifle through his bag. His hand closed around the jar, and he pulled it out, uncorking it with shaking hands. He dabbed his fingers in, and began spreading the salve over the wound in thick globs. 

“Inquisitor?”

He ought to clean the wound first, but there was no water. He needed to treat the wound. He needed to minimize the scarring. He could feel the flecks of dried blood peeling off his skin as he massaged the ointment into the cut. He had no idea why, at this very moment, this seemed like the most important thing in the world. 

“Gabriel.” 

Cassandra grabbed his hand, her fingers gently wrapping around his palm. 

“We need to know what happened. In the Fade.”

Trevelyan looked into her eyes, and felt his body freeze beneath him. 

“What did this to you?”

He opened his mouth, his lips quivering. He moved his tongue around, trying desperately to generate a noise – any noise – but he couldn’t. Nothing seemed to work. 

The Nightmare’s laughter echoed in the back of his mind.

He squeezed his eyes shut. _It’s not real._

“Was it that horrible?”

Trevelyan opened his eyes, and saw her face staring back at him, sympathetic and kind. He wanted so desperately to tell her everything, to explain exactly how horrible it had been, how he’d seen her suffer in the Fade, how he was the one responsible for Stroud dying, how he’d met the Divine.

He nodded his head silently. He felt the tears streak down his cheeks, his face twisting in misery, pained not only by his time in the Fade, but by his silence. 

Cassandra leaned forward, wrapping her arms over his shoulders, and pulling his head to her shoulder, leaning his cheek against her chest. She rubbed her hand alongside the back of his head.

_You don’t deserve this kindness._

He felt a sob break loose, and Cassandra shushed him.

“Just breathe, my friend. You will find your words.”

Trevelyan tried to stop himself from crying, but he couldn’t.

So he wrapped his arms around Cassandra, and took whatever comfort he could find there.

___

 

Trevelyan had turned and Fade Cloaked through the iron gates of Adamant Fortress, appearing on the other side as he continued to scurry toward the front gates.

“Inquisitor!” Several voices called after him. Sera pressed herself against the bars.

“Hey! You can’t just… do that!” 

Bull looked at Cole. “Can’t you follow him?”

“He doesn’t want me to,” Cole frowned. 

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“He _really_ doesn’t want me to.”

“Can you sense anything else?” Solas asked the spirit.

Cole stopped and gazed off, a glazed look in his eye. “Fear, frozen, the Anchor flaring so I can’t see so far, but darkness, doubt clouding everything.”

“You can’t rely on a demon to provide clarity, my dear” Vivienne interjected. 

“Just as you cannot rely on a Circle mage to comprehend the nuances of the Fade,” Solas retorted. 

“He saw you stranded there,” Cole echoed, his voice wavering, his brow furrowed. 

“You do not need to strain yourself; I am thankful that you tried to help,” Solas replied.

“No,” Cole said, his teeth gritted. “He saw us all there. Suffering. Screaming.”

“But none of us were there,” Varric said.

“He must know that what he saw were nothing more than illusions?” Vivienne asked.

“Have you ever physically stepped into the Fade?” Solas asked Vivienne.

“Of course not, my dear. No one has accomplished such a feat since the dread Magisters of Tevinter entered the Black City.”

“I assure you, it is a quite different experience than the Harrowing your kind is forced to endure.”

“He knows it wasn’t real, but that’s not the point,” Cole murmured. They all stared at him blankly, hoping for something, anything, any point of clarity. “It’s not what is. It’s what could be, that hurts.”

They all sighed collectively.

“Speaking of Tevinter,” Vivienne cut through the exasperation. “Are you all right, Dorian?”

Dorian sucked his teeth, and stared at her. “Quite all right, Vivienne.”

“I don’t suppose you would be able to provide any insight?” Cassandra asked.

“How would I? I was here with all of you,” he said, his voice agitated.

“You know the Inquisitor better than any of us,” Cassandra entreated. “Of course you cannot know what transpired in the Fade, but I have never seen him like this.”

Her eyes were full of concern. 

“Whatever may have happened in the Fade,” Dorian started, staring at the spot where he’d last seen Trevelyan, before he’d vanished beyond a brick wall, “it must have been truly horrifying, for him to shut us out like this.”

The wind blew overhead, and Dorian turned, eager to leave this dread place. They all began to follow, silently moving through the fortress, the anxiety they’d felt in coming to Adamant replaced by the fear of whatever had happened to Trevelyan within the Fade.

“Could he… would he be…” Sera asked, her voice nervous and skittish.

“An abomination?” Vivienne replied. “It would have to have been a very powerful demon.”

“I did not sense a demon within him,” Cassandra offered. 

“Nor did I,” Solas added.

“He’s still him,” Cole said.

Dorian marched ahead of the group, his face stony and unmoving.

He’d been so horrified, so scared that Trevelyan wouldn’t find his way back. The Maker couldn’t possibly keep pulling him from the jaws of defeat, over and over and over again. But Trevelyan had managed it once more. He had no explanation, other than divine providence, and for the time being that was sufficient.

But Trevelyan had yet again acted unilaterally. Dorian understood perfectly well that the Inquisitor’s power was his and his alone. 

But Trevelyan repeatedly found blades upon which to throw himself, and did so with abandon. These were not reasonable risks or unimportant choices – Trevelyan had repeatedly made decisions and found a way to bend everyone and everything around him to his will, without any regard for the dangers that he thrust himself and occasionally, the rest of the world, into. 

_Kaffas_ , when Dorian had first met him, he was certain that Trevelyan was a tyrant-in-the-making that would have to be deposed as soon as the Breach and all the rifts had been sealed. Using time magic to save the mages and the Templars was utter madness!

Of course, saving Haven by burying himself underneath an avalanche was no better. 

And everything that had happened with Ponchard – Trevelyan had gone behind Dorian’s back to arrange a meeting, knowing full well that it would displease Dorian.

Maybe that divine providence had blinded Trevelyan to the consequences of his actions. He’d made it through every trial, stronger and better than before. All of his gambles had paid off, and this was just one more to add to that pile. 

_He’d be riding a little higher if that were the case, don’t you think?_

The silence was telling. Something had happened in the Fade to shake his confidence, or else he would have been with them, cracking jokes with Varric and Bull and Sera as they marched together back to camp. 

_Now isn’t the time to give him leeway, Pavus._

He steeled himself against his sympathy. Trevelyan had clearly undergone an ordeal – the cut on the side of his face was proof enough that he’d had to fight his way out of the Fade – but it was an ordeal of his own doing. Certainly, Dorian wasn’t looking for an opportunity to enter the Fade physically, considering that Thedas was still facing the repercussions from the last time a Tevinter decided that entering the Fade was a good idea. But had Trevelyan not shoved them away, maybe they could have helped him. 

He was so intent on bearing his burden alone, and while he relied heavily on those around him for support, at some point, they’d all felt him pull back, lie about being ‘fine,’ and watched him soldier on as though he were fighting the world by his lonesome.

Dorian felt the world stop in that moment, watching Trevelyan falling alone into the Abyssal Rift, knowing full well that Trevelyan had _wanted_ to be the only one falling, knowing that he was powerless to stop Trevelyan from making yet another reckless decision without thinking of anyone other than himself.

He was convinced he’d lost Trevelyan forever. He’d single-handedly killed the bulk of the Warden Mages without so much as a thought, all in vengeance for robbing him of Gabriel. But of course, the hand of the Maker had pulled Gabriel through the Fade, and dropped him out of the Rift, so he could once again save the day.

Gabriel had come to rely on the grace of the Maker, however unwittingly. But Dorian couldn’t rely on the same divine intervention to protect him from heartbreak. Trevelyan failed to understand this – not that Dorian had ever verbalized his concerns – and so he charged headlong into danger, regardless of the possible consequences.

Trusting Gabriel to keep his heart safe was unwise.

“Hey,” Varric said, jogging up alongside Dorian, his short legs desperately attempting to keep pace with Dorian’s long, quick strides.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Dorian asked, glaring down at the dwarf.

“Are you all right?”

Dorian arched an eyebrow. “I managed to survive this shithole, so yes, I’m fine. Thank you for your genuine concern.”

“Pfft. It _is_ genuine!” Varric countered, as he bobbed alongside Dorian. “Normally, after the Inquisitor escapes death, you two are inseparable.”

“If you recall, _I_ wasn’t the one who phased through a fortress wall to avoid the rest of us,” Dorian spat, keeping his head high and his gaze on the path in front of him. “Besides, I would hardly call courting death at every opportunity ‘normal.’”

“Come on, Sparkler. Cut him some slack. He’s only trying to do what’s best.”

“Best for whom, exactly? Certainly not himself.” Dorian rounded a corner, cutting Varric off. It failed to dissuade him.

“Look, I get it. It’s hard standing by the side of the hero, watching them risk their lives at every turn. It’s hard to feel like you have anything to hold on to at all.”

Dorian felt the heat behind his eyes. “This isn’t one of your silly little stories, Varric. Don’t cast me as the beleaguered maiden, clutching my breast as I watch my knight ride off to battle. I’m hardly that helpless.”

But he was. He was absolutely, completely helpless. He couldn’t save Trevelyan – he certainly didn’t have the Maker’s reach – from the countless threats that clawed at him. Trevelyan bore the Anchor, and so long as it remained on his hand, Corypheus would see him as a rival, and would never stop until he’d taken Trevelyan’s last breath from him.

He felt his throat tighten. _Kaffas._

“That wasn’t what I was saying, Sparkler, and you –“ 

“Enough, Varric! I am fine. You ought to stop wasting your concern on me, and turn it back to the Inquisitor. Now, if you don’t mind, I would appreciate being left alone.”

Varric frowned, his brow creased in disappointment, as he fell back, allowing Dorian his space. Thankfully, they were nearing the front gates. It would be a march back to camp, but so long as it was in peace and quiet, he was more than happy to suffer it. 

“You’re all here. Thank the Maker,” Cullen breathed, quickly making his way to Dorian, who brushed past him without so much as a glance. He felt Cullen’s eyes following him. He was too occupied with his own righteous indignation to care.

“Cullen,” he heard Cassandra’s voice, “have you seen the Inquisitor?”

“Yes,” Cullen replied.

“Did he say anything to you?” 

“He asked for a horse. He was dead set on it. I managed to procure him one rather quickly, after he killed Erimond.”

“He what?” she gasped.

“It was… unpleasant, to say the least. He seemed terribly shaken. What happened?”

Their voices quickly vanished as Dorian exited the fortress, following the steady stream of soldiers and scouts as they made their way back to camp.

“Congratulations, Master Pavus!” one of the scouts called to him. Dorian ignored it, huffing quietly to himself.

He was angry. Angry with himself, for allowing himself this weakness. Angry at Trevelyan, for senselessly exploiting it. Angry at the world, for pulling the pair of them together. 

_Stop it. You love him, Pavus. You should have taken better stock, when you’d decided to fall._

He thought back to the night when he’d sheepishly questioned Trevelyan’s intentions with him. 

_I want more_ , he’d said.

More heartache, apparently. 

Dorian sighed quietly, the breath carried off by the cold evening wind. 

He silenced his mind, and dedicated himself to the task at hand: _get back to camp._

He tightened the loose buckles on his cloak, and continued marching.

____

 

He stood at the entrance to Trevelyan’s tent, staring at the hulking, oversized canvas. It seemed silly, now that he considered it: if an enemy were to attack the camp, they wouldn’t be left wondering which tent belonged to the Inquisitor. It was a giant target.

_But then again, that’s how Trevelyan treats himself._

He frowned at the flaps, wondering if he ought to enter.

He moved forward slightly, to see if he could make out any sounds coming from within. The canvas was thick but he might be able to make out Trevelyan’s light snoring, or breathing, some indication that life existed behind the folds of the tent.

Silence. 

A soldier passed by, and Dorian grabbed his arm quickly.

“Do you know if the Inquisitor returned to his tent for the evening?” he whispered.

The soldier, looking a little startled, shook Dorian’s hand off. “I believe so, ser. Would you like me to ask around?”

“No, thank you,” Dorian replied politely, and waited for the soldier to walk off, his steps a little skittish after having been grabbed suddenly by the Tevinter.

Dorian sighed, and moved forward. With the utmost care, he moved the flap, pulling it ever so slightly to peer inside.

He was greeted by Trevelyan’s muffled sobs, as though he were pressing his face into his pillow. The pain in Trevelyan’s voice was unmistakable.

Dorian withdrew his hand immediately, allowing the flap to cover the tent once more.

_He’s in no condition for a fight. Have a little sympathy, Pavus._

Dorian knew that the best thing, the _right_ thing, would be to enter the tent, lie down next to Trevelyan, and hold him close. He’d been so afraid he’d lost him, and now, the terrible fear of a life without Trevelyan was once again nothing more than a fear. Trevelyan needed Dorian, possibly now more than ever before. 

But what about what Dorian needed? Dorian needed someone who wasn’t constantly putting his life on the line, gambling it away whenever the chance arose. He knew, full well, that Trevelyan might die, through no fault of his own, in the fight against Corypheus. The heroes in these sorts of tales often did, as Varric had pointed out, even if Dorian was unwilling to hear it at the time.

_Go to him._

Dorian stared blankly at the flap, before turning around and marching away.

_You aren’t ready to face him. More importantly, he isn’t ready to face you._

He wandered for few moments, circling the camp, weaving through the tents and the siege equipment. The Wardens had been given tents of their own, set off slightly from the larger camp, and Dorian watched as they pitched their tents, while several scouts stood over them, watching intently for any perceived betrayal. 

Leliana taught them to be distrusting. _Smart woman._

His eyes scoured the camp for sources of smoke, and he’d follow them to a campfire to see if any of the Inner Circle were among those gathered around the flames. He had scant luck trying to find any of them. 

_Funny, you wanted nothing more than to be parted from their company just a little while ago, and now you’re seeking them out desperately._

He turned, and started walking back toward Trevelyan’s tent. It seemed as though he was destined to spend the night in the roll next to Trevelyan, stewing in his own bitterness as Trevelyan sobbed into the pillow next to him.

He’d gotten close enough, when he saw Cullen and Cassandra lurking just outside the flaps.

“What are the pair of you doing?” Dorian called out, his voice a quiet shout. They turned, and motioned for him to come closer.

“Have you checked on him?” Cullen whispered.

“I have,” Dorian murmured, staring at the Commander. Cullen’s face relaxed slightly. 

“And?” Cassandra asked.

“You ought to leave him be for the evening.”

“We need to find out what happened in the Fade,” she glared back at him, as though it were the most pressing issue in all Thedas at that very moment. 

“ _Kaffas_ , Cassandra,” Dorian whispered angrily. “He’ll be capable of telling you everything tomorrow morning. Don’t you think he deserves a bit of rest?” Cassandra frowned at him. “Cassandra, you have never been to the Fade. I can assure you, traveling there in your dreams can be trying enough, and that’s saying nothing of being dropped there physically.”

_And here you are, defending him. Or preserving him. If anyone’s going to be shaking answers out of him, it’s you, Pavus._

Cassandra looked down, and Cullen reached out for her arm. “Tomorrow, Seeker.”

Cassandra nodded dutifully, before turning back to Dorian. “Why are you out here, and not in there, with him?”

“That is between Gabriel and myself,” Dorian added, matter-of-factly. Cassandra’s eyes hinted the slightest sadness, as though Trevelyan and Dorian were her own personal romance novel, a guilty pleasure that she delighted in from afar, even if she’d probably relish the opportunity to drag Dorian to a Circle and have his mouth sewn shut like some Saarebas. 

“Fine,” Cassandra muttered, standing upright. “I am going to sleep. I hope he is willing to speak tomorrow,” her voice trailed off at the end, her eyes worried. 

“Where will you sleep?” Cullen asked Dorian.

“Have any room in your tent? I’m sure the pair of us can fit in one bedroll,” Dorian joked, his voice dark.

Cullen stared sternly at Dorian, and breathed heavily. “I’m sure we have an extra bedroll. Fair warning: my tent is nothing compared to the Inquisitor’s.”

“And here I was, thinking I might have the chance to nuzzle my nose in the back of your head.”

Cullen snorted. “Like you’d be the big spoon.” He shook his head, and massaged his temples. “Why am I even entertaining this conversation?”

They marched toward Cullen’s tent, and Cullen had a soldier go to find a fresh bedroll for Dorian. 

They stood outside, silently waiting for the soldier to return, staring at the ground, unsure of what to say.

“When you checked on the Inquisitor,” Cullen started, and Dorian attempted to suppress the exasperated sigh from escaping his lips, “was he… did he say anything?”

“No. He was…” Dorian stopped, debating how much he ought to tell Cullen. “He was sleeping soundly. I didn’t want to disturb him.”

“He’s woken you up in the middle of the night often enough,” Cullen said.

“And you know this how?” Dorian asked.

“Trevelyan had mentioned it in passing, this past week while we were planning for the siege.” 

“I’d very much like to know what gossip he’s spreading about my sleeping habits.”

“He’d only said that he’d roused you the past few evenings, and was thankful that you were so good-natured about it.”

“Oh,” Dorian said, staring right through Cullen. 

“He… he said he was lucky to have you.”

Dorian’s mind wandered to the prior nights, waiting for Trevelyan to return to the tent, his little ruse, pretending as though he’d be woken up by Trevelyan’s practically silent entrance. 

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Dorian said absentmindedly. 

Cullen looked at him quizzically, before understanding wiped the expression from his face. They stood silently, kicking at the sand and dust beneath their feet, as the soldier returned with the extra bedroll. Dorian took it and thanked the soldier quietly, as they shuffled into the tent. Cullen grabbed some of his belongings, and tossed them into a corner, as Dorian unfurled the roll and began to disrobe. 

It was far easier when Trevelyan did it for him. He sighed as the magic undid the buckles, and he yanked his boots off.

“I sleep in the nude, Commander. I hope that doesn’t bother you,” he joked reflexively. He felt like absolute shit, and assumed that it would not go away until he and Trevelyan spoke.

“I’m not a blushing Chantry sister,” Cullen replied. 

Dorian slipped under the bedroll, and rolled on to his stomach, praying that sleep would come quickly and that tomorrow would be a new day, where he and Trevelyan might be able to face each other and have a frank conversation about everything that was wrong between them.

“Are you alright, Dorian?” Cullen asked from beside him. Dorian could feel his eyes staring.

Dorian huffed quietly, and turned his head. He could just make out Cullen’s face in the darkness. 

“Not really,” Dorian whispered. “But I will be.”

Cullen turned onto his back, and looked up at the top of the tent.

“Let’s hope Trevelyan feels the same way in the morning.”

The moment of silence between them was telling.

“Goodnight, Dorian.”

“Goodnight, Cullen.”

___

 

Dorian had hardly slept. His eyes burned, and his muscles ached. The hour spent battling demons atop the battlements of Adamant had taken their toll, but he’d spent the better part of the night staring at the folds of the tent, wondering if Trevelyan was doing the same. He hoped he’d stopped crying. 

He’d pulled himself from bed, and shambled to a campfire in the center of camp, where the rest of the Inner Circle had gathered. It was a much later morning that they’d become acclimated to, but considering they’d fought well into the night, they’d deserved the extra sleep. Everyone looked a bit worse for the wear, save for Vivienne, who floated gracefully into the group and began boiling a pot of water for coffee. 

“From my personal stores, darlings. Enjoy it; we have a long journey back to Skyhold.”

Cassandra was noticeably absent, as they all sat silent around the fire, staring into the flames before them.

“Did you get much sleep last night?” Blackwall asked.

“No. Is it that apparent?” Dorian replied.

“You didn’t insult me in your response, so yes.”

Dorian didn’t have the energy to come up with a snide remark, so he half-heartedly rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t either.” 

“Hey Commander,” Sera called, her usual chirp reduced to a squawk, “where’s the Seeker off to? Doing the benedictions? It’s not Friday yet.”

“She went to check in on Trevelyan, and hopefully coax him out of bed.”

“Could have sworn Dorian was in charge of the coaxing,” she chuckled to herself. Bull huffed his light approval, and Varric smiled weakly. The fatigue was wearing on all of them, and Sera quickly shut her mouth.

Vivienne was kind enough to pour the coffee for those who wanted it, and Dorian was more than happy to take a mug, the dark espresso in the glass a welcome luxury in the middle of this blighted wasteland. Dorian would have questioned Vivienne serving _anyone_ , but he’d learned better than to question small kindnesses. Not to mention he was too exhausted to think.

The wind blew through the camp, howling quietly, carrying the voices of soldiers and scouts as they readied everything for transport.

Cassandra’s figure appeared, moving slowly toward the camp. Dorian glanced behind her, and saw Trevelyan in tow, his head bowed lowly toward the ground. His hair fell down around his face, obscuring his features, and his heavy cloak was wrapped around him, the high collar further blocking him from view. Cassandra looked back intermittently, and Trevelyan would tag along. Dorian felt a pang in his side.

_Something is very, very wrong._

Cassandra stopped at the side of the fire. 

“Are you hungry?” she asked him. He shook his head, shuffled over to the side of the campfire, and sat slowly upon the log. He did not lift his head, and he did not say a word.

“Inquisitor?” Vivienne asked. He sat, unmoving, as though he hadn’t heard anything at all. Dorian stared at him intently, and felt his stomach drop.

“What’s going on?” Varric asked, glancing between Trevelyan and the Seeker.

“I… I am not certain,” Cassandra said. “It seems that he’s lost his voice.”

Trevelyan remained, unmoved.

“Not just his voice,” Sera murmured. 

“Sera!” Blackwall chastised her quietly. 

Trevelyan looked up at the pair of them. His eyes were dull, blank, as though nothing at all existed behind them. Dorian hadn’t seen anything like it since…

“Is he Tranquil?!” Dorian screamed over the fire, jolting up, as he marched around the flames. 

“That’s impossible,” Cassandra said, as Dorian kneeled before Trevelyan. Dorian wouldn’t hear her explanations.

“ _Amatus_ , please. Look at me. Look at me…” He rubbed his hands along Trevelyan’s cheeks, and the dead eyes gazed back at him. A small sparkle emerged, recognizing who was in front of him.

“That’s right, it’s me. What happened to you? Who did this to you.” 

Trevelyan’s eyes looked over, beyond Dorian. 

“ _Amatus? Amatus! Look. At. Me._ ”

“Dorian,” Cullen said.

“ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian said, ignoring the rest of them. Why weren’t they concerned? Trevelyan was blank, expressionless. _These barbarians._

“Dorian!” Cullen yelled. “Turn around!” 

Dorian turned back to stare daggers at Cullen, and saw what they were all staring at. 

The campfire was glowing blue, the flames incredibly hot, as they licked up at the sky. They died down nearly immediately, and Dorian turned back to Trevelyan.

“Was that you?” 

Trevelyan did not meet his glance, but he nodded slowly. 

“Oh, thank the Maker.” Dorian grabbed Trevelyan’s chin, and lifted his face up so it would be even with Dorian’s. His eyes wandered nervously up to Dorian’s, and Dorian saw how red and watery they were.

_He must have cried all night._

Dorian’s own anger had been subsumed by his concern for Trevelyan’s well being, and for the moment, that was fine. This issue was far more pressing than any quarrel that existed between the two.

“ _Amatus_ , please, say something. Anything at all.”

Trevelyan stared at him, his eyes drifting in and out of focus, and he opened his mouth. He exhaled, and shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the sound from his throat, but nothing came out. His eyes started to water, dangerously close to spilling tears, as his lips quivered silently. 

Trevelyan sighed, and turned back down to the ground. 

“What happened to you in the Fade?” Dorian whispered, not expecting an answer, as he slid his hand gently along Trevelyan’s face, brushing past the hair, his hand grazing over the wound on the side of Trevelyan’s face. It was slick with ointment. 

At least he was taking care of himself. 

“So what do we do?” Dorian asked, turning back to Cullen and Cassandra, as Trevelyan leaned his face into Dorian’s hand. Dorian rubbed his cheek with his thumb..

Cassandra put her hands on her hips, and sighed, looking down at Cullen, who sat with his arms on his knees, his fingers interlocked. 

“We get him back to Skyhold as soon as possible. Maybe familiar surroundings will help.”

“And the healers will be able to look him over,” Cassandra added.

Trevelyan went rigid, and squeezed his eyes shut. Dorian felt his jaw clench against his palm.

“ _Amatus_ ,” he whispered. Trevelyan was unaffected by Dorian’s plea. Several seconds later, he relaxed, and his eyes opened, still sad and empty. 

Dorian grimaced, and looked back at them.

“Let’s hurry.”

___

 

They’d made exceptional haste, over the course of the past several days. It had been grueling, racing ahead of the rest of the army, but it had been worthwhile. Luckily, Trevelyan was functional enough to mount his horse and hold on, but he hardly ate, hardly slept, and most importantly, hadn’t spoken a word. 

The trip had been terribly somber, and the lighthearted conversations that should have permeated their group after a resounding victory were silenced, as though all of them had suffered the same fate as Trevelyan. Any conversation they had was short, clipped by their own anxiety, as the Inquisitor’s condition failed to improve. What little conversation they could manage was accomplished by the fireside in the evening, after Trevelyan had retreated behind the flaps of his tent, and revolved almost solely around Trevelyan.

“Has he said anything?” Cassandra would ask.

“No,” they would all respond, in disjointed unison, and that would be it for the evening’s conversation.

Dorian had returned to Trevelyan’s tent, and had been sleeping in the same bedroll, but the Fade had changed Trevelyan. It was like sleeping with a completely different person. Trevelyan’s affection had been replaced with a tentative, shaky uncertainty. Dorian would attempt to squeeze into the nook, and Trevelyan would practically tremble, resisting as though Dorian were a Rage Demon who would burn him alive just by touching him. The only reason that Dorian persisted in attempting to sleep next to Trevelyan was because he’d hoped that some sort of familiarity would help shake Trevelyan enough to snap him out of this fugue, but thus far, no such luck was to be had. 

Dorian would find himself awake in the middle of the night, staring across Trevelyan’s chest into the darkness, and would look up to see Trevelyan staring at the roof of the tent, the same empty look in his eyes. Sometimes, he would cry. Other times, he’d be breathing heavily, and the motion of his chest would make it impossible to sleep, forcing Dorian to roll over on his side. Trevelyan would not reach out to try and stop him. 

Dorian had put aside his own feelings for the sake of attempting to fix whatever was wrong with Trevelyan, but he was stewing in his own resentment, and it had started to wear him thin. Every interaction he’d had was curt and unpleasant, and he’d snapped several times at the group, keeping his tone hushed so Trevelyan wouldn’t hear and be driven further into silence. He had to muster all of his patience and understanding for the one person who needed it, and soon, the realization that Trevelyan’s actions were now reverberating through to the relationships he’d fought so hard to win added a new layer of frustration to all his interactions.

Whatever terrors gripped Trevelyan were a mystery to all but him. Cole had tried desperately to read him, but most attempts were unsuccessful, save for one evening by the campfire.

“He’s dreaming of the Nightmare.”

Of course, it was in Cole’s nonsensical babble, so it was hardly valuable, but after nearly a week’s worth of silence, even the tiniest morsel seemed like a feast.

“So he’s having a nightmare? Could’ve told you that, weirdy,” Sera sighed.

“No, it’s not that simple. It’s _the_ Nightmare. Like _the_ Iron Bull,” Bull said, puzzling over Cole’s words. 

“So _the_ Nightmare. Great. Sounds like fun,” Varric grunted.

“The Nightmare… could it be a demon?” Blackwall asked. 

“It would not be so far fetched; lesser demons have taken far more threatening names,” Solas said.

“So Trevelyan encountered a powerful demon, while he was physically in the Fade.” Vivienne started, leaning forward. “A moniker like ‘the Nightmare’ would lead one to believe that it is a demon of Fear, or Terror.”

“A demon that scared him silent?” Bull replied. “I’m glad I wasn’t in the Fade with him.”

Several voices grunted their assent.

“Oh, the lot of you can leap off a cliff,” Dorian spat. “’How wonderful, that Trevelyan is there to save all your asses and suffer the consequences. He’s lying behind the flaps of his tent, unable to speak, and you all are thanking your lucky stars it wasn’t you.” Dorian jumped up, and stalked to Trevelyan’s tent. “It should have been any one of us before him, and you all know it.”

He cast one final glance over the group, who each looked into the campfire, despondent. The picture had become all too familiar, and he opened the flaps of the tent and disappeared inside. 

He immediately sat down and began to take off his boots, when he turned to check on Trevelyan, and found him sitting up, staring blankly at the flap.

“ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian whispered to him, “lie down and relax.”

Trevelyan’s eyes wandered over to Dorian, and his lips turned down in a delicate frown.

“Did you… were you listening to that?”

Trevelyan nodded quietly, and turned his head away. Dorian crawled over to his side, and touched Trevelyan’s face. 

“You don’t need to worry. We’re all doing plenty of that for you. You just focus on getting better, all right?” 

Trevelyan’s mouth stopped frowning, but the sadness still languished behind his eyes.

“Let me finish disrobing, and I will join you momentarily.”

Dorian turned back, removing his robes and cloak with a simple spell.

“I killed you.”

Dorian turned around, and looked at Trevelyan, whose face was locked on his, his gaze severe, as though he’d been mortally wounded.

“ _Amatus?_ ”

“I… k…killed you. In the F-F-Fade.”

He struggled desperately with his words, as though they were impossible to spit out. But he’d managed it, and in spite of the fact that his pronouncement had made Dorian’s skin crawl, it was progress. Dorian immediately kneeled down next to him, and clasped Gabriel’s hand in his own. 

“That’s very good, _Amatus_. Well, not the killing me part, but that’s something, yes?”

Trevelyan’s eyes brightened ever so slightly. He opened his mouth again, and reached his hand out to touch Dorian’s head.

“B-blood… magic.” 

“Do you think I’m doing blood magic? Or did someone perform blood magic upon you? Did you have to do blood magic to escape?”

Trevelyan looked at him, slightly overwhelmed. _One question at a time, Pavus._

“I’m sorry, let me-“ 

Trevelyan shook his head. 

“So it was none of those things?”

Trevelyan shook his head. His hand moved to Dorian’s chest, and his finger jabbed at Dorian’s heart. It was a little indelicate, but all things considered, he’d assumed Trevelyan wasn’t attempting to control his freakish Marcher strength like he usually did.

“Someone did blood magic on me?”

Trevelyan nodded, his eyes once again sorrowful. 

“ _Amatus_ , it was the Fade. Nothing that happened there was real. You know that just as well as any mage.”

Trevelyan frowned, and opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Did you encounter a demon there?”

Trevelyan’s eyes shot over to Dorian, wide and fearful, and his lips quivered.

“The Nightmare?”

Trevelyan blanched, turning white as a sheet, as his body went rigid, the strain of his muscles easily visible through skin that had become taut from his failure to eat a proper meal. The hand that Dorian had grasped shook with tremors.

“Hey, hey, calm now. It can’t hurt you. You aren’t in the Fade any longer.”

Trevelyan’s posture remained rigid, as Dorian’s words rolled right off him.

“It’s going to be alright, I promise. Just lie down,” Dorian says, as he gently pushed Trevelyan back against the bedroll. Trevelyan followed, his body still racked with tension, but easing slowly. Dorian quickly removed his pants, and tucked into the bedroll next to him.

“No more questions for tonight, all right? You did very well, _Amatus_. Just relax. I’m here. I’ll keep you safe.”

Trevelyan huffed quietly, and turned his face down to plant a small kiss on Dorian’s head. It was jittery, uneven, and he lingered for an inordinate amount of time, but it was the first kiss he’d given Dorian since Adamant. He wrapped his arm around Dorian and pulled him close, his body finally subdued, as he breathed deeply and evenly.

Dorian, for the first night in many, felt cautiously optimistic. Even a few words were marked progress. Maybe Trevelyan wasn’t lost beyond all hope – maybe he’d be able to get some more out tomorrow. If anything, it was a start, which meant that he was one step closer to being better again.

Dorian wouldn’t have to wait forever for the conversation they so desperately needed to have. 

Dorian scratched gently at Trevelyan’s chest, and Trevelyan sighed his approval. He began to hum quietly, a slow, broken tune that slowly became familiar to Dorian.

“That’s the song you were singing in the basin at Suledin Keep.”

Trevelyan nodded, and Dorian smiled up at him. He leaned up to give Trevelyan a quick peck on the lips, a gesture that Trevelyan struggled to reciprocate, his lips twisting awkwardly as he continued his soft humming.

Dorian would have urged him to stop and get some rest, but after not having heard his voice for what felt like an eternity, he wasn’t about to interrupt his sweet melody.

So he lay against his chest, feeling the hum vibrating gently through Trevelyan’s body, and found himself rocked to sleep in the warmth of Trevelyan’s arms.

He slept through the night for the first time since Adamant. 

___

 

Trevelyan watched Dorian fall asleep as he hummed quietly, seemingly the only noise he could generate at the moment. The notes were staccato and unrefined, each note a new difficulty for his vocal cords to conquer, but if it helped Dorian sleep, it would all be worth it. 

_He deserves it, since you’re the very reason he hasn’t gotten any._

He’d managed to get a little bit out this evening, but the Nightmare still gripped at his throat. The tremors weren’t as frequent, but the horrors he’d experienced had not yet faded from his memory. 

_You need to talk to them. You need to find a way to get the words out._

But every time he’d tried to open his mouth, his would lose his sense, and for an instant, find himself back in the Fade, watching Stroud be killed, watching the Inner Circle be tortured, watching Dorian die in his arms, a thousand times in an instant – and he was silent once more.

He’d surrendered to the silence. Tonight’s vocalization was almost a sweeter victory than saving the Wardens at Adamant.

He felt sleep tugging at him, and he was absolutely exhausted. It was only a few days’ journey to Skyhold from this point, and the strenuousness of their travels had finally managed to wear him down, so that not even his fears could keep him awake at night. 

He leaned his head back, and felt his eyes shuttering. The Nightmare danced behind his eyelids, and he felt himself tense slightly in response.

_It’s not real. It can’t hurt you._

He slept through the night for the first time since Adamant.

___

 

“He spoke last night,” Dorian said over the campfire, as he sipped his coffee.

Cassandra nearly tripped over herself. “What?! What did he say?”

All eyes turned on him. Dorian swallowed, and looked into her eyes. 

“Not very much, unfortunately,” Dorian muttered. “I believe his exact words were, ‘I killed you in the Fade,’ and then, ‘blood magic.’ I asked him about the Nightmare, and that was the end of the conversation.”

“Blood magic? Well, shit,” Varric moaned. 

“He didn’t use it, nor was it used on him. He shook his head ‘no’ when I asked him.”

“Are you sure the two were connected? Killing you and blood magic?” Blackwall asked.

“He pointed to my head, and then my heart. So it seems killing me in the Fade is tied to blood magic some how.”

“He is aware that it wasn’t you in the Fade, my dear? It was likely only a demon impersonating you,” Vivienne said.

“No, I think he understands that, considering Southern Thedas’ delightful tradition of throwing mages to demons in the Fade in order to prove themselves.” Dorian sighed. “I mentioned the Nightmare, and he froze. After I managed to calm him down, he hummed. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

They all stared quietly into the flames.

“Dorian,” Cullen started solemnly. “Do you think… the blood magic could have something to do with…” he stopped, and nodded at Dorian, his eyes attempting to communicate something that his mouth was unwilling to say. 

“Just say it, Cullen,” Dorian sighed, unwilling to put in the effort to decipher the gesture. Cullen frowned, his eyes creased with disappointment as he sighed, before speaking.

“Could it have something to do with your father?”

Dorian stopped, and looked down at the dregs of his coffee. It was such an obvious connection, and he was furious at himself for not making it sooner. Furthermore, he was angrier still that he had allowed Cullen to spit it out. Their focus should be on Trevelyan, not on Dorian and his familial issues. Furthermore, he didn’t want to give anyone any more reason to loathe Tevinter and doubt him, and finding out that his Father had plotted a blood magic ritual to turn Dorian into a mindless drone would certainly engender a litany of questions. Questions he didn’t want to answer. Questions that shouldn’t even be asked.

He hadn’t forgiven Halward, not completely. Nor would he ever forget the betrayal he’d felt when he’d discovered his Father’s plot. But he’d put it behind him, as much as he could, and was satisfied to believe that it would never come up again.

But of course, it had reared its ugly head once more.

“Could it have something to do with your meeting in Redcliffe?” Cassandra asked as politely as possible.

“But what does that have to do with blood magic?” Varric asked.

Dorian looked up at Cullen, whose face was appropriately apologetic. Dorian nodded politely, acknowledging Cullen’s regret for having mentioned anything, and Cullen took it in stride, his face smoothing out with relief.

Cole looked at Dorian with sad eyes. He’d ferretted out the problem quickly after the meeting at Redcliffe, luckily, while Dorian was alone in his alcove.

_You hold him so tightly. You let it keep hurting, because you think hurting is who you are. Why do you do that?_

It seemed that Cole had learned not to take a dip in the minds of his compatriots and spill their deepest secrets. _Small favors, Pavus._

Dorian looked around the campfire, and noticed that the entire group had fallen silent, and stared just behind him. Dorian felt the familiar pull of the Fade that shrouded Trevelyan, as he sat on the log next to Dorian, tucking in close.

“Good morning, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, as Trevelyan leaned his head on Dorian’s shoulder. 

“Mmmm… Morning,” Trevelyan sputtered. 

The collective look of joy and surprise on the faces of those gathered around the fire could not be understated. Cassandra practically leapt through the flames of the campfire, grabbing Trevelyan by the shoulders and smiling brightly at him.

“It is good to hear your voice again, friend.”

Trevelyan smirked, a little twitch of his lips, but more than he’d managed in days. 

“That’s it, there,” Sera chirped, playfully punching him in the arm. “Words aren’t so hard. No matter how bad Varric makes it look.” 

The group laughed, and it felt like the clouds had broken over their heads, and the sunlight was shining upon them once again. 

“I need…” Trevelyan frowned, trying to find his words. Everyone stared on intently. “I need… a bath.”

“Why don’t you have something to eat first, darling?” Vivienne started in.

“Let me get you a cup of coffee,” Cassandra offered. Trevelyan furrowed his brow.

“Calm down. Don’t overwhelm him. You want a bath?” Dorian asked.

Trevelyan nodded, his eyes a little bewildered by all the attention.

“Let me go grab my things, and I’ll lead you to the stream.”

Trevelyan smiled weakly, his eyes still wide. Dorian got up, letting go of Trevelyan’s hand, and walked off toward the tent, but not before glaring at the entire group, pointing angrily at Trevelyan, and dragging his thumb across his throat. 

_If you ruin this for him, I will kill you._

Dorian practically ran to the tent, grabbed his entire pack with a quick swipe of his arm, and turned around, diving back toward the campfire before one of the idiots surrounding Trevelyan put their foot in their mouth, and caused Trevelyan to regress.

Luckily, the few brief moments he’d been away had not been punctuated by any conversation, but Cole hovered ominously close, and Dorian prayed that he wouldn’t spiral off on some ill-advised tangent. Spirits had the worst manners.

Cole opened his mouth, and Dorian drew his hand back, ready to silence him with a fireball to the face.

“They’re happy.”

Trevelyan looked up at Cole, and tilted his head. 

“They believe in you, because you earned it.”

Dorian felt the flames licking at his palm, and Cassandra glared at him, as though she were daring him to do it so she’d have a reason to knock him on his ass.

Trevelyan stood up from the log, and threw his arms over Cole’s shoulders, in a lopsided, overeager hug. Cole’s eyes widened, peeking over Trevelyan’s shoulder as his arms wrapped around Trevelyan’s waist.

“He’s happy. I helped,” Cole said, pleased with himself.

“A small miracle,” Dorian smarted, letting the fire in his hand dissipate. He reached out for Trevelyan, who broke his hug and turned to Dorian. His face seemed happy, or like it was expressing its idea of what happiness was, with his slight smile and calm eyes. 

The change of pace was refreshing.

Dorian reached for Trevelyan’s hand, and Trevelyan grabbed his, following him quietly through the woods toward the stream. They passed an Inquisition scout on the way, who politely nodded at the pair. They’d only take a small squad of scouts with them on their journey, and only those who would exercise discretion regarding Trevelyan’s condition.

They made it to the stream and Dorian set his pack down, reaching in to grab the bar of soap. It was a luxurious blend, with hints of sandalwood and cardamom, leaving a clean, fresh scent that lingered. Luckily, Bonny Sims did not have Segritt’s prejudices against Tevinters, and charged him a fair price for the goods. 

_Anything for the Inquisitor’s most trusted companions._

He turned, and saw Trevelyan stepping out of his clothes in a Fade Cloak, standing naked in the cool morning air. 

He’d lost a noticeable amount of weight, his muscles readily apparent considering how lean he’d gotten. Dorian tried not to fret, as he started to undo his straps.

“H-here,” Trevelyan offered, reaching out for Dorian as he pulled Dorian from his clothes. 

“Thank you, _Amatus._ ”

They walked into the stream together, as they both waved their hands, warming the water with their magic.

They sank into the soft riverbed, the water rising up to their stomachs as Dorian dipped down to soak his body and his hair. Trevelyan mimicked Dorian, but dunked his head under the water, coming up with his hair stuck to his face. He pushed it back, and wiped the water from his eyes. 

“Do you want me to wash you?” Dorian offered. It was almost as though Trevelyan was a child, and Dorian had to look after him.

“N…no. I c-can,” Trevelyan protested.

“All right,” Dorian smiled, as he started to lather himself. 

“I’m…. mmm not… com-com _pletely_ helpless.”

Dorian looked up at Trevelyan face, and recognized the tiniest hint of defiance sparkling behind his eyes.

_So the fire hasn’t burned out_ , Dorian thought. _It’s just dimmed._

He laughed, to show that he appreciated Trevelyan’s joke, and Trevelyan smirked back. Dorian had an idea, and hoped it would generate some response. 

“Do you remember the first time we bathed together? Before we went to confront Alexius in Redcliffe?”

Trevelyan looked at Dorian knowingly, and nodded his head. 

“I thought you were an ass: sneaking up on me, getting into the water with me, washing my back. You were so pleased with yourself, and I was simultaneously infuriated and aroused.”

Trevelyan smirked, his eyes glowing weakly, but glowing nonetheless.

“You took full advantage of that opportunity,” Dorian accused, as Trevelyan’s lips parted and revealed his teeth in a half-smile. 

_Progress._

“I thought I had you, and there you were, shaking your naughty bits in my face.”

Trevelyan chuckled, a quiet, throaty sound that echoed from the depths of his lungs. It didn’t last long, but the few ‘ha ha’s’ that had emerged were glorious.

“I have to say, it left quite the image in my mind.”

Trevelyan reached forward and put his hands on Dorian’s waist. Dorian looked up from the river, and Trevelyan’s eyes were solemn once again.

“What’s the matter?” Dorian asked.

“I… I’m… s-s-s… sorry.”

“For what?” Dorian asked. He felt a little ping in his chest. He wanted Trevelyan to apologize, of course, but he wasn’t sure that Trevelyan knew what, exactly, he ought to be apologizing for.

“F-for this.” His hand waved nervously toward himself, and he looked at Dorian’s eyes plaintively.

_Not the apology you were seeking. Alas, he might not even be capable of that apology just yet._

“ _Amatus_ , you…” Dorian paused, trying to think of how to phrase his acceptance as delicately as possible, without mentioning the Nightmare or Adamant or the Fade. “You don’t need to apologize. We just want you to focus on getting back to yourself.”

Trevelan frowned, and looked down at the river.

“I’m… trying.” 

“We know, Amatus, we just-”

“It’s hard” Trevelyan interjected.

“What?” 

“It’s… hard. It was… horrifying.” He swallowed.

“You don’t have to speak about it right now, _Amatus._ ”

“I… I’ve been s-s-silent long… enough.”

Dorian looked up at him.

“Why not wait until we return to camp? So you don’t have to repeat yourself?”

“I… I – I d-don’t… know…” 

Trevelyan paused, his eyelids beginning to drop, the spark that lingered behind them beginning to vanish.

“ _Kaffas!_ ” Dorian whispered, looking up at Trevelyan, who’d suddenly felt a thousand leagues away. “Everything is fine!” He smiled, even if his stomach turned. “You were laughing! Focus on that, _Amatus_ ,” Dorian reached out for Trevelyan’s face, and Trevelyan leaned into Dorian’s touch.

“I… l-l-ove you,” Trevelyan murmured, his eyes still sad and deadened, his voice cooler than the morning air, the same saturnine tone of a Tranquil. 

Dorian felt impatience roiling in his throat, determined to materialize into words, words that would be launched at Trevelyan. The lack of communication was exhausting, even if it had only been several days, and the utter dread Dorian felt when he’d first heard that Trevelyan was mute had abated. Trevelyan was fine. He was functional. But that wasn’t enough.

Dorian sighed, attempting to collect his thoughts. Trevelyan watched him intently, and saw the twitches in his face, the expressions that Dorian tried to suppress, those tiny moments that would have been missed if Trevelyan had blinked at just the right moment. Trevelyan’s face dropped even lower.

“It’s all right, _Amatus_ ,” Dorian lied, pulling him close. “Let’s finish bathing, and we’ll head back to camp. It’s not much longer to Skyhold; maybe the familiarity will do you some good.”

Trevelyan nodded quietly. 

Dorian sighed, and began to lather himself once more.

_Or, you’ll just stay quiet forever._

___

 

Trevelyan watched as Dorian’s face melted through several expressions near instantaneously. Disappointment. Disgust. Anger. Frustration. 

_You’re going to lose him_ , the Nightmare cackled in the corner or his mind. 

He tried not to wince. It had gotten easier, over the past few days. He wasn’t quite sure if he was learning to cope with his fears, or if he was submitting to them. But the cackle of the Nightmare no longer shook him to his core. It was a delightful sort of numbness, if only because the sheer intensity of his emotions over the past several days was untenable. Feelings nothing at all was preferable, if only for this moment.

Of course he knew what he had seen in the Fade had been nothing more than an illusion, a trick of the mind designed to break him. But it had worked. 

“It’s all right, _Amatus_ ,” Dorian murmured. Trevelyan could smell the lie on Dorian’s breath. “Let’s finish bathing, and we’ll head back to camp. It’s not much longer to Skyhold; maybe the familiarity will do you some good.”

He wanted to scream the words, to apologize to Dorian for everything he’d put him through, for everything that had happened since, and pull him close, let him know that everything was, in fact, all right.

But the sound just wouldn’t come to his throat.

Men had lived and died by his hand, by his words and his actions. He’d managed to shoulder the burden as best he could, sneaking up to his chambers in the middle of a long day to grab a glass of whiskey and forget, for an moment, the power that he now wielded.

The Nightmare sensed the burden, and had crushed him with it. 

He didn’t know why speaking had become a struggle, why the words hardly made it past his lips. But every time he opened his mouth, the images of his allies, his friends, hobbling about the Fade, their worst fears come to fruition, silenced him.

_You will lead the Inquisition to ruin._

He looked at Dorian, who’d become exasperated with him. He could sense it. 

_You’re going to lose him._

It had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Trevelyan’s fear crippled him, and he wouldn’t be able to stop Dorian once he decided to leave.

You have to overcome.

The voice of Divine Justinia, pushing him forward. It was weak, insignificant in comparison to the laughter of the Nightmare, which boomed through his skull like an echo off a mountainside.

He looked at Dorian, and felt his voice fail him. So he nodded. It was all he could do.

Dorian continued lathering himself, and Trevelyan fell back gently into the water, so that Dorian wouldn’t see him cry.

___

 

When they’d arrived at Skyhold to the raucous applause and celebratory shouts of the members of the Inquisition who had not come to Adamant, Trevelyan had straightened out his slouched posture, smiling and waving at the people around him. The Inner Circle moved around him, preventing anyone from getting too close, that they might find out that the smile was false, carved into his face like a statute, and that nothing lay behind the expression. They moved him through the fortress as quickly as they could to avoid any suspicion. Leliana and Josephine had been apprised of his condition in an extremely short letter written by one of the scouts, who’d used so much coded language that Dorian wondered if Leliana herself would be able to decipher it.

Apparently, it had been enough. Leliana quickly made her way to Trevelyan’s side, and led him off to the War Room. 

“All of you, come.”

They stood around the large table, staring at Trevelyan, who sat in a large winged armchair, its leather upholstery squeaking slightly as a healer poked and prodded at him.

“He’s been silent since Adamant?” Leliana whispered to Cassandra.

“Yes, save for a few words that come in fits and spurts. But nothing more.”

Leliana stared off, the wheels of her mind turning. 

Josephine stared on, her eyes wide with concern. 

“Fretting over how you’re going to explain this to the nobles?” Dorian whispered to her, only half-joking. She turned and frowned.

“Do you think me so single-minded? I care _deeply_ about the Inquisitor. I do not wish to see him suffer, especially after all that he has endured.”

Dorian sighed, and Josephine turned back, as Trevelyan opened his mouth for the healer.

“Say, ‘aaaah.’”

Trevelyan stared at her, and Dorian watched as his lips quivered, the telltale sign of his attempt to generate a noise.

“Aaa… aaahhh… hhh.”

It came out broken, as Trevelyan stuttered. The room looked on, their eyes narrowing at the sound. Dorian heard Josephine stifle a gasp.

“Did he speak? After escaping the Fade?” Leliana asked. 

“Immediately after, yes. But by the next morning, he was silent,” Cassandra replied. 

“So we can eliminate the possibility that something in the Fade stole his voice,” she whispered, her fingers gently rapping on the table in front of her. 

The healer stepped away from Trevelyan, and turned back to the group.

“Have you found anything?” Josephine asked.

“I am sorry to report, Ambassador, that I can find nothing physically wrong with the Inquisitor. For all intents and purposes, he appears to be in perfect health.”

Dorian felt the tension in the room.

Josephine moved forward. “Thank you for your time, your expertise, and most of all, your discretion,” she said, slipping a small satchel into the hand of the healer. 

“Of course. Thank you, Lady Montilyet.” 

The healer took her leave, and Cullen shut the door tight behind her. They stood around the table, staring, unsure of what to say or what to do.

Trevelyan rolled forward, and stood up slowly, walking toward them, taking his place at the center. He leaned over the table, his fingers running along the grooves in the wood, his fingers tiptoeing over the map, making their way slowly across Orlais. He marched them to the tiny metal piece that was supposed to represent Adamant Fortress, and plucked it from its place. 

He placed it back in the small chest next to the map, where Cullen stored all of his little figurines, and his hands continued to dig through the box, the quiet rumble of metal pieces clanging against one another the only sound they could hear in the entire room. 

Trevelyan stopped rumbling, having apparently found what he’d been searching for. He removed his hand, and leaned forward, stabbing the miniature sword into the spot where Adamant stood, a piece that was identical to the ones that were stabbed into Redcliffe, and Therinfal, and Halamshiral.

_Victory at Adamant._

A victory of the most perverse sort, for it seemed as though they’d lost far more than they’d gained. Trevelyan stared down at the board solemnly. 

“Inquisitor?” Josephine offered, stepping to his side. “It’s been a long journey. You must be very tired. Why not retire to your chambers for the day? There is nothing that requires your immediate attention.”

Trevelyan stared at her, and nodded, before leaning forward and wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She did not hesitate to return the favor.

“S-s-sorry, J-Josie.”

Trevelyan had not spoken since arriving back at Skyhold, and Dorian watched as several members of the Inquisition jumped slightly at the sound of Trevelyan’s voice, but Josephine was trained, gracious, and staid. She patted Gabriel gently on the back, and they let go of each other, her concern bleeding through her expression and Trevelyan’s eyebrows creased in melancholy.

“Go rest,” she said, calmly and patiently, as though this were any other day

Trevelyan nodded. He looked up, around the table at everyone, and sighed. 

He began to walk to the door of the War Room, before he stopped, and looked at Leliana.

“Inquisitor?” she asked, curious.

Trevelyan looked as though he were attempting to move a mountain with his bare hands. The veins in his neck bulged out, and his jaw was clenched so impossibly tight, Dorian was afraid he’d crack his teeth. He lips parted, his jaw twitching angrily, as the word started to come.

“She… s-she s-s-aid.. I’m-m-m sorry, I f…failed you, t-t-too.”

“She? She who?” Cassandra asked. Dorian wanted to punch her, if only because she didn’t seem to grasp that barraging Trevelyan with questions was not helping him find his words any faster.

“Cassandra,” Leliana shushed the Seeker, and stepped forward, reaching for Trevelyan’s hands. “You said, ‘She said, ‘I’m sorry, I failed you, too,’’ correct?”

Trevelyan nodded, still struggling. 

“Can you tell me anything else?”

Trevelyan’s eyes turned to Cassandra, and his mouth shuddered once more.

“D-Divine… J-J-Justinia.”

Cassandra gasped, and Dorian immediately grabbed her by her arm and pulled her back. 

“Calm down, Seeker. Getting worked up will not help the situation,” Dorian whispered in her ear as quietly as possible, every word a threat as pointed and as dangerous as he could possibly intone. Cassandra relaxed and turned back to him, glaring at him – of course – but he recognized the understanding in her eyes. 

“Did you meet her? In the Fade?” Leliana asked, her voice but a whisper.

Trevelyan shook, his body going rigid, but he fought whatever force had gripped him, gnashing his teeth as he resisted the tremors. He shook his head up and down, and then side to side.

“Yes? No? I don’t understand,” Leliana said quietly, her hands steadying his, as he continued to fight himself.

“A… A spir… A s-s-spirit… In… in her f.. her form.”

“A spirit, in the form of the Divine?”

Trevelyan nodded.

“S-she… she helped… helped me t-t-to… escape.”

Leliana paused, gathering the fragments of what Trevelyan was saying. 

“A spirit, posing as the Divine, helped you to escape the Fade?”

Trevelyan nodded, as the tremors began to subside. 

“And she told you to tell me, ‘I’m sorry. I failed you, too’?”

Trevelyan nodded again, more vigorously this time. Leliana continued to look at him, as the silence in the room became unbearable.

“Thank you for letting me know. Please, go and rest, Inquisitor.”

He let go of her hands, and quickly made his way to the door of the War Room. He stopped, and looked back at the group, his mouth rounding.

“I… I’m-m… t-t…”

He stopped, his eyes furrowed in frustration at his noncompliant tongue.

“I’m g-going… t-t-to f-fix this.”

He opened the door, and disappeared as he closed it behind himself.

Practically all of them sighed, none of them eager to break their silence. An ironic twist, considering how eager they all were to break Trevelyan’s. 

“So,” Leliana was bold enough to be the first to talk. “What have we been able to piece together about Trevelyan’s time in the Fade?”

Everyone looked at Dorian.

“Anything he’s told me, I’ve already divulged, but if I must: Trevelyan fell into the Fade at Adamant. I don’t believe he knew that the Anchor could open Rifts, so this must have been a terrible, yet opportune shock. While in the Fade, he encountered a demon, known as the Nightmare. I am not certain what exactly the Nightmare did to him, but apparently he had seen me, the victim of a blood magic ritual. Today, we found out that a spirit impersonating the late Divine Justinia helped him escape the Fade, and left him with a personal message to deliver to Leliana.”

“Thank you, Dorian,” Cassandra said, turning to the rest of the group. “It seems as though-“ 

“Wait,” Josephine interrupted. “What blood magic ritual?”

All eyes fell on Dorian once more. 

“It’s personal, and I would rather not discuss it.”

“Dorian, if it could help us understand what happened to Trevelyan in the Fade, you must tell us.”

Dorian paused, and laughed at the absurdity of the situation. One more thing he’d have to sacrifice, all for the sake of the Inquisition.

“I really don’t think it’s of consequence,” he muttered, “but I’m assuming you will press me until I say something.”

They stared on. Cullen shifted uncomfortably, and Leliana turned her gaze to him.

“I have to defend Dorian. He shouldn’t have to reveal this, considering Trevelyan said nothing about it.”

Dorian felt the air hitch in his throat. It was a wonderful surprise, but then again, maybe it was Cullen’s way of attempting to make penance for mentioning his father over the fire a few days prior.

“Do you know something, Commander?” Leliana asked.

“I only know what Dorian has told me in confidence, and I will not break it.”

“You mentioned something about his father,” Cassandra added, rather harshly. Dorian’s eyes widened. 

“Stop talking as though I weren’t in the room!” Dorian spat, furious that he was being treated like a child. “I’ve volunteered the information I’ve received from Trevelyan. He made no mention of my father. I am not trying to be evasive, or to conceal information, so you could at least treat me with a modicum of respect.”

They stood at the impasse. Cassandra’s grimace wouldn’t break, and Dorian continued to glare at her. 

“If I may,” Solas stepped forth. “I have done what little I could, while were we making our return by visiting the Fade to find an answer.”

“Have you found anything?” Leliana asked.

“I have. I have conferred with some of the spirits with whom I am familiar, and asked them what they might know of the Nightmare.”

“And?” Cassandra blurted, impatiently.

Solas arched his eyebrows at her, a somewhat cool expression on his face, and turned back to the group. “It appears that the Nightmare is a demon who feeds on fear.”

“How is that any different from a Fear or a Terror Demon?” Vivienne said, craning her neck to look down at Solas. 

“Those demons are far more simple creatures, creating horror for their own delight. But the Nightmare consumes the fear entirely – it feeds off the horrors than run so deep, they would rend you asunder. A demon of Fear, though smarter and more sophisticated than the Terror demons it commands, does not strip you of your fears; it merely exploits them for its benefit. But the Nightmare tears your deepest fears from the dark recesses of your mind.”

“So it consumes your fear? As though you never feared anything at all?” Blackwall asked.

“I could only glean so much from my friends; they are not the sort of spirits who would willingly find themselves within the lair of the Nightmare. But from what I could understand, that is the demon’s power.”

“A demon that takes your darkest fears. Do you think that it turned those fears on Trevelyan?” Josephine asked, her hand covering her mouth. 

Suddenly, it all made sense. Trevelyan had seen what Dorian would have become, had the blood magic ritual been performed. A demon had taken his shape, and shown him his fear in the cruelest way it could imagine. The Nightmare understood how much Trevelyan loved Dorian, and knew exactly how much pain seeing Dorian consumed by his father’s terrible plans would cause him.

Oddly romantic, in the way that anything involving the Fade generally was.

“So the Nightmare… broke him?” Sera asked. 

More silence.

“If that is the case, it appears that he is fighting desperately to piece himself back together,” Vivienne purred.

“Shitebag demon,” Sera huffed. “Can’t we help him? Glue him back together or something?”

“As much as I wish there were a way, I believe this is a battle he must fight alone,” Solas said. 

“Stop being a tit, Solas, and start thinking! Do you weird Fade thing!”

“Were it only that easy, Sera. If there was anything I could do to expedite the process, I would have already done it.” Solas sighed. “He was so curious about the Fade. I fear that he and I will never journey to the Fade again.” 

Dorian narrowed his eyes in curiosity. “Solas, what exactly are you on about?”

“Trevelyan would rather I kept this between himself and I, but it seems as though that is not an option. I discovered that the Anchor allows him to dream with an unparalleled clarity, by visiting Trevelyan in his dreams. When he discovered the same, he asked me to teach him, to guide him through the Fade.”

Dorian felt a pang of jealousy, and his anger flared up underneath it all. Trevelyan had been exploring the Fade in his dreams with Solas? Why hadn’t he said anything? Why didn’t he ask Dorian? This smacked of his conversations with Morrigan, discussing magical theory, when Dorian was a perfectly acceptable – and in his mind, preferable – candidate. Why was he going to everyone but Dorian with all of his questions about magic and the arcane?

“That is absolute madness! What of the dangers that the Fade presents?!” Cassandra shouted.

“I have both protected and guided Trevelyan since the explosion at the Conclave, Seeker. Do you think I would neglect my promise to keep him safe, particularly in the Fade?”

Cassandra stopped, and fastened her lips shut. “I apologize, Solas.”

“Thank you, Seeker,” Solas paused, then continued. “Trevelyan carried none of the prejudices or preconceived notions about the Fade that many of you do. He relished the opportunity to see the dreams and memories that shape the world beyond the Veil.”

“Why are you telling us this now, darling?” Vivienne asked.

“I have no proof to support this assertion, but if our time in the Fade allowed the Nightmare better access to Trevelyan, then I am terribly sorry for encouraging his curiosity.” 

Dorian felt his lip curl instinctively, at the idea of someone being so careless as to allow Trevelyan to be hurt. The Fade was always dangerous – even for an experienced mage like Solas – and he couldn’t believe that Solas had been so blind to that fact.

“Hey, Chuckles,” Varric stepped up to his side. “It’s not your fault. Trevelyan would have done it, one way or another. And how could you have known about the Nightmare? None of us did.”

Solas smiled politely. “Thank you, Varric.”

“Anything to see you smile, Chuckles.” 

A moment of quiet passed, before Cullen spoke up.

“So, what do we do now?”

There was no easy answer. Pushing Trevelyan had only driven him further into silence, and he had made progress, albeit very slowly. But a few words were hardly encouraging, and the Inquisition would be unable to carry on if its Inquisitor was a _de facto_ mute.

“What _can_ we do?” Josephine asked.

“Then we wait, and help him however we can,” Cassandra said. 

More silence. They’d all been muted by Trevelyan.

“Whatever!” Sera shouted, shattering the moment. “I’m going to see him.” She skipped toward the door.

“Do you think you’ll get him talking, Buttercup?” Varric asked.

“Maybe,” she turned back as she opened the door, “he’s just sick of all this gloomy.” She turned back around, and muttered under her breath, “I know I am.”

___

 

Trevelyan lay down on his bed, looking up at the top of the four-poster above him.

His mind was quiet. Quiet enough.

“G-Gabriel,” he said.

_Still stuttering._

“Trevel… Trevelyan.”

_Come on, just one word._

“Hello.”

_Okay._

“In…quisitor.”

_Too many syllables in that one._

“Inquisitor.”

His voice was weak, unrefined, but getting a whole word out was an accomplishment. An infuriating, disappointing accomplishment. 

_You have to do better._

The pressure was overwhelming. He felt his chest tighten, as thoughts of his failures started to crawl in the outer corners of his mind. 

_Stop. Focus on your breathing._

It was an exercise they taught back in the Circles, to help develop your ability to concentrate. ‘Magic requires focus,’ and whatnot. He was never particularly good at clearing his mind, but anything was better than nothing now.

_The Fade is fucking bullshit._

“Fucking bullshit,” he said boldly.

_There you go!_

He smiled at the ceiling. _At least you can still swear!_

_You’re going to do this._

It was late in the afternoon, and dinner would be soon. He assumed that Josephine would prefer he take his meal upstairs, so that the nobles wouldn’t see him in this condition. Fair enough. 

Still, it was bound to be lonely, locked up in his tall tower until his voice returned to him.

“Hey you!” Sera called from the stairs. “Tug up your breeches, I’m coming up the stairs. Not trying to see your arse!”

_Or maybe not._

“All right, then. Figured I’d pay you a little visit, thought maybe you’d be feeling chatty.”

Trevelyan stared at her. For a moment, he saw a flash of her in the Fade, staggering toward him, babbling nonsense. A moment was much shorter than it had been. For the large portion of their journey back to Skyhold, all he’d been able to see was what he’d seen in the Fade, the future versions of the Inner Circle that would come to pass should he fail.

“H-hi.”

“S’good, yeah?” She smiled. “So, what to talk about, what to talk about…” she tapped her lips with her fingers. 

“N-n-not… the Fade?”

“Oh, no way!” She chuckled. “Had enough of that nonsense for a lifetime. Why’d I join the Inquisition again?”

Trevelyan smiled. 

“There’s you. You blinked out for a second, but you’re getting back.”

“I’m t-trying.”

“You try all the time. Don’t think I didn’t notice. You play it all cool, like, ‘Me? Inquisitor? I’m just a simple mage.’ But you care. About people. All the people.”

Trevelyan frowned slightly.

“Maybe I joined the Inquisition to get things back to normal, but I stayed because you try and do good. Or good enough. Whichever.”

Trevelyan smiled. 

“T-tell… tell me ab-bout Denerim.”

“Told you all you need to know, really.”

“Well… h-how b-bout the Jennies? Any f-f-fun st… stories?”

“I s’pose I’ve got a few good ones, but you should know: I have to swear you to secrecy,” she said solemnly. “Seriously, not. a. word.”

Trevelyan crossed his heart with his finger.

“Shouldn’t be too hard for you, anyway.”

Trevelyan couldn’t help but laugh. Everyone else treated him like raw lyrium, as though he might explode spontaneously. But Sera, in spite of herself, saw past it all. Maybe she wasn’t as immature as everyone thought.

“I have a good one! Some prissy noblewoman in Churneau, total loon – shut up – who wasn’t paying her servants. Thought slavery was still a thing in Orlais or something. Well, anyway…”

Trevelyan sat and watched as she continued her story, laughing and smiling as she told her tale. He was incredibly thankful for her company.

_You’re going to fail her_ , the Nightmare growled.

Trevelyan winced for a moment, and luckily, Sera didn’t notice. 

_Shut up, you._

___

 

It had been a week. A long, painful week.

Josephine had spun some tale about the Inquisitor falling ill. Of course, that had generated a mild panic among the troops and the nobility, but it was better than revealing that the Inquisitor was suffering from some psychic malady that was unable to be diagnosed. The nobility were putting in extra hours, gossiping behind their fans about the stability of the Inquisition, should the ailment not pass quickly.

The days dragged on. And each of them were peppered with questions.

_How is the Inquisitor? Has his condition improved? Is he awake, speaking?_

Harmless lies were told, all in service to protecting him and the Inquisition.

They took turns, spending time with him during the day. He had begun to progress, and he was able to sputter out whole sentences, albeit slowly, but without the same monumental effort he’d had to exert. And while everyone was quickly chastised before stepping into his chambers by Josephine – _smile, and keep the conversation light!_ – they all left in different states, depending on how Trevelyan fared in that moment.

Dorian, of course, was absolved of this duty. He spent his evenings and nights with Trevelyan. He was always happy to see Dorian, but he gave him plenty of space once he’d arrived in Trevelyan’s chambers. Dorian had actually managed to read a whole book in the span of a week, a feat that Trevelyan never would have allowed him to accomplish, had his libido been what it used to be.

Trevelyan had tried to initiate something, kissing down Dorian’s chest, before Dorian stopped him.

_You don’t have to do this._

_I… want to._

_Do you really, though?_

Trevelyan frowned, and pulled himself up to Dorian’s side. Dorian put his book down, and gave Trevelyan a short peck.

Something about it all felt wrong – Trevelyan’s motions didn’t quiet feel right, not at all like how he usually touched Dorian. Something about it felt tepid and unsure, and Dorian couldn’t help but feel he was taking advantage of Trevelyan, even looking down at Trevelyan’s body, his muscles still taut underneath his skin, his cock swollen in between his legs. 

Dorian had shut himself in his room one afternoon and masturbated furiously, digging his fingers inside of his hole in some sorry attempt to replicate the sensation of Trevelyan. Trevelyan toed the line between tenderness and roughness masterfully, in a way that made Dorian squirm, but the effect was diminished when it wasn’t Trevelyan inside of him.

He came, but it was largely unsatisfying. 

_You ought to have taken him up on it. Maybe some deep throating would help tickle his vocal cords back to full function._

Dorian couldn’t bring himself to have sex with Trevelyan while he remained in this condition, and while so many words were left unsaid. Even if he had to spend the next few weeks hot underneath the collar, it would have to do.

Josephine had been handling both her diplomatic duties and monitoring Trevelyan’s condition, while taking copious breaks to spend time with him. Her sunny optimism was being stretched thin, and she’d been working late into the night managing all of her responsibilities. 

The daily War Room meetings she had instated had become the subject of many a bet, organized by Varric. 

_How long until Ruffles cracks?_

Dorian refused to participate. It was perverse. They already had one broken Inquisitor; betting on the well being of the Ambassador? Madness. 

Dorian had put five sovereigns on a month.

He was seated in the chairs that had been brought into the War Room for the explicit purpose of the meetings. It was a comfortable sofa, and Dorian sat politely on one end, trying not to slide to the other, all of the cushions slightly angled underneath the weight of the Iron Bull. 

“Could you not sprawl out like that? I’d like to end this meeting in the same place I started it: not in your lap.”

“There are worse places you could find yourself,” Bull growled.

“Come on, you don’t need to spread your legs that far. It’s not that big.”

“How would you know?”

“You don’t wear smallclothes. We can see it through your pants.”

“Sorry Bull, he’s got you there,” Sera added.

“Can we please go five minutes without discussing someone’s genitalia?” Josephine asked, shaking her head as she reached for her cup of coffee. She’d been drinking far too much lately, and Dorian would have guessed that the slight tremor in her hand was some sort of attempt at solidarity with the Inquisitor, had he not known better. 

She went around the room, and asked those among the group who’d spent time with Trevelyan if they’d discussed anything of significance. After pressing Dorian to admit what the blood magic ritual had meant, a policy had been instated that they were not required to disclose any information to the group, unless it related specifically to Trevelyan’s time in the Fade, and even then, only to Leliana. Dorian had luckily escaped this requirement, as Cullen had vouched for him.

_The details of the blood magic ritual are impertinent, I assure you_ , he’d sworn to her. She wasn’t pleased, but she was placated.

“Dorian?” Josephine asked.

“The evening was uneventful. He only woke up screaming once this time!” 

“Still?” 

“He did manage to utter a whole sentence without stuttering or pausing.”

“That’s something!” Varric said, trying to elevate the mood.

“Josephine, my dear, progress is sometimes slow. Painfully slow,” Dorian drawled, yawning slightly.

“It’s been slow enough,” Trevelyan said. They turned, and saw him standing in front of the door.

“Inquisitor, how –“

“Don’t worry, Josie. I p-pulled a Fade Cloak around myself and snuck… in here. No one saw me.”

They stopped, mouths agape.

“Inquisitor, you’re…” Cassandra whispered.

“Talking? It’s ab… about time. It’s not perfect, but it’s s-something.”

“That is wonderful!” Josephine gasped, as she made her way around the table to grab Trevelyan, her hands wrapping around his arms as she took stock of him. 

“Good on you,” Varric clapped.

“You’ve all been so patient and… h-helpful. I t-t-think…” 

He paused, and they all waited with bated breath.

“It’s time you h-h-heard about…”

Another pause. Longer this time, It’s not like he even needed to finish the sentence. They all knew what he was going to say. Waiting for him to say it was just a courtesy they were paying to a friend, to avoid discouraging him.

“… the Fade.”

Josephine started in. “Inquisitor, if you aren’t ready –“

“No,” Trevelyan stopped her with a wave of his hand. “I’ve m-made you wait long enough.”

“You didn’t make us do anything,” Sera argued with him. “Stop being an arse.”

“Listen,” Trevelyan said stoically. “I’m never g-going to be ready. To talk about it.” He paused, and looked down at the ground. “But I ha…have to. Now.”

They all shifted nervously in their seats. Trevelyan sighed, and turned around to open the door. 

“Excuse me, soldier? Could you bring me a fresh pot of…”

A pause. Josephine’s hands flew up, and her fingers balled into frustrated fists.

“Coffee?” The soldier added.

“Yes!” Trevelyan said pleasantly. “Just slipped my mind.”

Josephine released her breath, and righted her posture. Trevelyan closed the door behind him, and returned to the War Table. He magicked a chair behind him – the very same armchair he’d been seated in when they’d first gotten him to the War Room after their return from Adamant, and he sat himself down.

“This may take a while.” 

___

 

Trevelyan’s voice drifted in and out, as he finally told the story they’d all been waiting to hear.

It was a lugubrious process, and he spared not one excruciating detail, no matter how much he stammered or froze. A tremor would grip him, and he’d fight through it, repeating a consonant until the word it was attached to finally fell from his mouth, and he would proceed. 

They’d been interrupted several times by various scouts or servants, and they were quickly ushered away by Josephine, who sternly warned them that any further disruptions would not be tolerated; that they could wait until this meeting was finished, and no, Josephine was not quite sure when that would be, but anything short of Corypheus attacking Skyhold directly was less important than what was transpiring in the War Room, please and thank you.

Dorian had to hand it to her; she was a special brand of frightening. 

He’d found himself in the Fade, his memories projected around him, of his Harrowing. He’d walked to the edge of the Black City, following a Despair Demon. He’d killed it, of course, but not quickly enough in Dorian’s estimation. It was a bold and frank admission. Vivienne had shifted uncomfortably in her chair as the details came, slow and steady, like a leak in a dam that sputtered erratically. 

He’d met the Divine – or a spirit impersonating the Divine, or some reflection of her will that lingered in the Fade, or who really could know for sure how all this worked in the Fade – and she’d helped him to recall his memories. He remembered what had happened in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. 

He’d been wandering down a hall, trying to find a place to avoid the proceedings that were occurring in the upper levels of the Temple. He knew that he’d only been invited because of his family’s name, to give more weight to the mage’s cause: he’d had nothing substantive to contribute, and so he wandered off.

_Not even invested in my own freedom enough to stick around_ , he laughed darkly.

He’d stumbled upon Corypheus’ plot when he heard the Divine’s call for help, pushing into the room as the Divine knocked Corypheus’ orb from his hand. It bounced across the room, and Treveyan had caught it just moments before it had exploded. Everyone else had presumably perished, save for Corypheus.

The Nightmare had latched onto him quickly thereafter, and had done its best to exploit his fears. He talked about the mother-spiders without hesitation, and he’d caught a glance or two from other members of the Inquisition, who’d widened their eyes at him in surprise. Apparently, Trevelyan’s relationship with his family was not a well-known fact, but he continued with his story uninterrupted.

He’d fought off demon after demon, admitting to a vice married to each of the demons he’d fought: his Rage of being forced into this position, his Desire to leave the Inquisition behind and live his life unencumbered by his Inquisitorial duties, his Despair that he would never find the freedom he so sorely sought.

He laid himself bare before the room, and they listened silently. Dorian had always found that there was a certain level of discomfort in being forced to confront the unvarnished truth. The Inquisitor they believed in so blindly, stepping down off the pedestal they’d all placed him upon, so that they might see him as human, a being with hopes and fears, aspirations and worries, scars and blemishes, well… it made their skin crawl. They didn’t want to believe that the man that had been touched by the hand of the Divine was just as soiled and base a human as the rest of them. Dorian saw the discomfort crawl across their faces, and prayed that it wouldn’t cripple Trevelyan.

But Trevelyan had gone numb, his voice dull and unemotional, as he pushed himself through his confession. Dorian supposed he had to dissociate, in order to make it through the pain of what it was he was communicating. 

Dorian was listening as he stared off into space, until his focus was immediately roused by the sound of his own name, uttered by Trevelyan’s voice. 

“I saw Dorian, leaving m-m-m… leaving me. Over and over. In ev-v-very w-way.” 

Dorian felt the pinpricks of shame on his skin, the sheer embarrassment of being the subject of Trevelyan’s fears. 

_He’d afraid of me leaving him._

Dorian swallowed hard, as he felt the sideways glancing bearing upon him. At the very least, speaking with Trevelyan would be made far easier, because Trevelyan was aware of Dorian’s intention to one day return to his homeland. 

“D-don’t look at him. These are m-m-my fears. They d-do not reflect on Dorian.”

But didn’t they? They reflected Trevelyan’s feelings toward Dorian, that Dorian leaving physically meant Dorian leaving Gabriel behind completely. It was a lack of trust in Dorian, a wall that Trevelyan had built up between them.

Dorian had no intention of letting Trevelyan go. That was exactly why Dorian was angry with him: because Trevelyan seemed to have no problem leaving Dorian alone and broken-hearted, but _Maker forbid_ the shoe was on the other foot.

He appreciated Trevelyan’s attempt to keep the focus of the conversation away from Dorian, and rightly so, but when Trevelyan immediately followed up his attempt to shield Dorian from scrutiny with a litany of examples of Dorian extricating himself from Trevelyan’s grip and returning to Tevinter, Dorian couldn’t help but feel annoyed. In every instance, he was the one smashing Trevelyan’s heart to pieces; in every scenario, he was the villain. Of course, Trevelyan didn’t look much better, but Dorian knew whose side the rest of the Inner Circle was coming down on.

Dorian sighed. Couldn’t Trevelyan have omitted this portion of the tale? Did his need to clear his conscience in penance for the silence that had consumed him require that he drag Dorian down with him?

He’d finally broken free of the tales of Dorians crushing his heart into a fine powder before setting it afire, and pissing on the ashes.

He had fallen, and hit his head.

“Inquisitor!” Vivienne had yelled. “A head injury, darling? I know that your tongue was tied, but you ought to have attempted to communicate this information to us.” She had immediately rose from her chair and glided to his side, her hands feeling along his head as a gentle glow emanated from her hands.

“Thank you, Vivienne, but I think I’m f-f-fine. The healer did… didn’t find anything.”

“Darling, she was informed that you’d lost your voice, not that you’d hit your head. Two completely different injuries, my dear, which require very different remedies. Please continue your story. I can work while you speak.”

She continued to rotate her hands gently over her head, stopping occasionally as her hands glowed brighter for an instant, before moving on to another spot. 

“When I got… when I managed to stand, I saw Hawke and Stroud, surrounded by demons. The Nightmare told me I had a choice.”

“Wait,” Varric interjected. “I hate to interrupt, but you saw that in the Fade?”

Trevelyan shook slightly in his chair, and Vivienne pulled her hands away for a moment. His eyes had grown weary, and he looked down in his lap.

“It… I-i… The d-d-demons had… They pou… pounced and… and I re… I reached for.. H-Hawke. Stroud d-died beca… because of m-me.”

“Inquisitor, you were not responsible,” Cassandra said automatically.

“Yes!” He shouted, the loudest noise he’d made in weeks. “The Fade reflects… it reflects the phys… physical world. The N-nightmare controlled the de… the demons. I made for Hawke! It could… see into my heart.”

The room was silent, as Trevelyan shuddered in his chair, his eyes widened with frustration. 

“It’s… it’s my burden. One more life… life on my hands.”

Trevelyan sighed, and leaned forward to grab his cup of coffee.

“I… just a little b-break, please?”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Josephine replied as quickly as possible. 

Trevelyan took a long sip of his coffee, and sat for several moments in silence, leaning his head back against the chair, his eyes closed, humming quietly to himself.

_The Marcher song._

“What’s he doing?” Sera whispered. Varric leaned over, and Bull’s ears also perked up.

“This is an arduous process, Sera. He needs a moment to calm himself.”

Trevelyan pulled his hair out of the unkempt bun that it was in, and let it fall down around his shoulders. He ran his hands through it, his fingers scratching along his scalp, as he continued to hum. His voice grew quieter, and the humming stopped. He opened his eyes, and leaned forward in his chair.

“O-okay. Thank y-you. I feel much better.”

“Do you still wish to continue?”

Trevelyan took a sip of coffee, and made a face. He set the base of the mug in his hand, and Dorian watched as flames licked up the sides.

“Too cold. Y-yuck.”

They waited, and Trevelyan leaned forward, placing the now steaming mug on the table in front of him.

“I managed to pull my… myself together. And I kept moving.”

He’d encountered the spirit of the Divine once more, who’d given him the final piece of the puzzle. After the explosion at the Conclave, he’d woken up in the Fade, beset upon by demons. He’d climbed, the demons nipping at his heels, and the Divine – the spirit who had impersonated her in the Fade – had helped him escape. The figure of the woman who’d pushed him out of the Fade was not Andraste. It was the spirit. The same spirit who had been guiding him through the Nightmare’s lair. 

“Herald of Andraste,” he smiled. “I kn… I knew it was b-b-bullshit.”

The Nightmare had shown him each member of the Inner Circle, brought to ruin by Corypheus, ascended to godhood on the throne of the Maker. Vivienne and Cassandra were being tortured. Sera and Bull had succumbed to madness; Blackwall, to the Taint. Solas was Tranquil. Varric was Red Lyrium. Cole was a demon.

And Dorian, the victim of a blood magic ritual. Forced to serve Corypheus against his will. 

Dorian’s breath caught in his chest, as Trevelyan repeated the tale of his encounter with the demon that had impersonated Dorian. Apparently, Dorian had been subjected to a blood magic ritual at the hands of the Venatori, who couldn’t bear to see such a talented Tevinter throw his lot in with a bunch of vile southerners, and instead of wasting his talent and potential by killing him, they turned him.

It was a perfectly believable lie. Dorian couldn’t have been more thankful that Trevelyan had the courtesy to not reveal his personal affairs. Cullen turned his gaze to Dorian, but Dorian ignored him.

He’d taken a bride, and she was pregnant with his child. Trevelyan had obliterated the demon that had taken her shape with a thought. 

“I wasn’t too h-h-happy,” he said, frowning.

And then he’d had to kill Dorian, who in his last moments had regained his old self, and swore his undying love to Trevelyan.

“I knew that none… none of w-what I saw was real. But it… it was so…”

Trevelyan stopped, and looked out the window. It was already midday. 

“I don’t have the words.”

The more he talked, the more he purged everything that had happened to him, the better his diction had become. Maybe the raw Fade had been nothing more than poison, seeping into him, tainting his body, paralyzing his tongue. Maybe all he needed was to purge the venom, in order to be able to speak once more.

The Divine spirit had roused him from his despair, and had led him to the Nightmare, who she’d managed to fend off with an awesome display of power.

He attempted to describe the Nightmare, but the words were insufficient. He’d stutter over the description, and eventually, gave up. 

“Nothing I’d say could even begin… to describe it.”

He’d been attacked by a Fear demon, who’d wounded his face before he’d destroyed it.

_Good. Nothing should have ever marred that perfection._

He’d made it out of the Fade just as the Nightmare had reappeared, snaking his way through the Nightmare’s spindly legs, launching one final, spiteful attack before diving through the Rift and reappearing at Adamant.

“And from there, you k-know the rest,” he said. He paused for a moment, leaning his chin upon his hand, as he stared blankly at the table in front of him. 

“I still hear it… the N-Nightmare. Laughing. It’s not _actually_ his v-v-voice. Just a… lingering memory. But it’s b-been haunting me since… since Adamant.”

“Are you certain the Nightmare…” Cassandra’s voice trailed off.

“Didn’t leave something in me? As s-sure as I can be. He stirred up… feelings I’d had be… before all of this. He just made them a bit… louder. It was… is… a bit overw-w-whelming.”

He sat there, staring off into space, his eyes fatigued, but peaceful. Josephine stood up, and walked to his side.

“Thank you, Inquisitor. What you experienced in the Fade was truly horrifying, and I’m sure that having to relive it now was unpleasant, at best.”

“B-because the Inquisition has been a series of v-v-very… _pleasant_ events, right, Josie?”

They all laughed quietly at his joke.

“I’m happy to see that you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” she said.

“Oh, c-cut the formalities. You m… missed me.”

“We all did,” she replied.

Trevelyan stood up, and stretched his arms around her in a hug.

“I’m glad to be back,” he said. She hugged him back, and they stood there for a moment.

“I… feel better, now. A l-l-little lighter, maybe?” he said. “But I… I’m very tired. I think I ought to rest.”

“You have earned it,” Cassandra said, standing up and moving to his side, placing an arm on his shoulder. “I am sorry for what happened in the Fade. But I do not believe that what the Nightmare showed you will come to pass. You are far more capable than you think.” 

“Y-yeah, yeah. Butter… buttering me up because we still haven’t st-stopped Corypheus.”

Cassandra smiled. “Go and rest, my friend.” Trevelyan smiled back at her, and walked toward the door.

“Thank you all, for your p-patience and understanding,” he said, his pace slow and even, for once in the past several days. “I know this must have been ver… very frustrating. For me, as well.”

He’d reached the door. He turned around, and looked back once more. 

“At least… this is a start. I’ll be better. Soon.”

He cloaked himself in the Fade, and vanished.

Josephine sighed, and Cassandra put her hands on her hips.

“He spoke more today than he has in the past several weeks,” Leliana said. 

“It’s a good sign, I think,” Cullen added.

Bull huffed. “All this Fade shit, no wonder he couldn’t speak. I’ve seen the Re-educators break the minds of Tal-Vashoth before, when they couldn’t be brought back to the Qun.” Bull’s lip curled in disgust. “At least Trevelyan’s finding his way out.”

“Well, Andraste may not have dropped him out of the Fade, but come on – it must be the Maker who keeps pushing him along!” Varric said.

“Do you think he was truly responsible for the death of Stroud?” Blackwall asked.

“I’m not quite sure it matters one way or another, my dear,” Vivienne replied, leaning toward him. “The Inquisitor blames himself, regardless.”

“He’s been fighting harder than any of us,” Blackwall said. “If only we could all be as brave as him.”

“How ‘bout you, frowny? You love that Fade stuff. Being Tranquil’s gotta be scary. Not as scary as the Fade stuff is to us normal people, but you know,” Sera said, leaning over her chair at Solas. 

“It would be worse than death,” Solas replied solemnly. “Our fates were similar, do you not think? You were reduced to incoherent madness. We had both lost ourselves. In fact, I think that was the purpose of what the Nightmare showed Trevelyan. To shake him to his very core, knowing what he does of us, to see us bound or cursed by our deepest fears.”

Sera pondered it for a moment, and turned back to the War Table.

“I already babble nonsense, _do you not think?_ ” She repeated Solas’ words with his affect. “Not much a difference, then.”

Solas smiled. “I certainly would not want you to face such a fate.”

“Same, but for you,” Sera chirped, “even if your Fade spirit stuff is weird.”

“He feels better. Calmer. The shaking has stopped,” Cole replied. “Or slowed. I’m not sure. But better. Brighter again.”

Dorian sighed, and stood up from his chair.

“Well, that was positively exhausting. I think I will join him for an afternoon nap.”

“Dorian,” Cassandra called after him.

“Yes, Seeker?”

“Thank you. I’m certain that you played an integral part in Trevelyan’s recovery.”

“Don’t thank me, Cassandra. This was something that Trevelyan did on his own.”

_Trevelyan doing things on his own is exactly what brought him to this point. And exactly what he and I need to discuss._

Dorian turned and opened the War Room door. Several scouts and aides waited in the hallway, and immediately dove toward the door when he’d opened it. 

“I may be done, but I can’t make any promises about the rest of them,” Dorian said, floating past them. 

“Do you have any idea how much longer it will take?”

Dorian turned his head over his shoulder, as he walked down the hall.

“Not a clue.”

___

 

Trevelyan lay under the covers, having drawn the drapes around his bed to keep out the afternoon sunlight. He was close to drifting off. 

_You did well. You made it through._

His voice felt steadier than it had in a long time, and the tremors were nothing more than weak flashes that he could push through. A bit more time, and he’d be normal. Or as close to normal as he’d ever be, with a glowing Anchor on his hand.

He heard the curtains behind him rustle, and turned to see Dorian’s body sliding through the deep crimson velvet, his perfect form silhouetted by the light of day. 

“Mmmph,” Trevelyan murmured.

“Now, now, _Amatus_. You did enough talking today. I thought you might enjoy some company, for your afternoon nap.”

Trevelyan turned, and pulled Dorian in close, wrapping his arms around him as Dorian sunk into his body. Trevelyan planted gentle kisses on his head, before Dorian rose up to his lips and kissed him back.

“We both need the rest, _Amatus_.”

“I’m at fault for that,” Trevelyan muttered.

“Let’s not worry about that right now.” 

Trevelyan grimaced slightly, and slid his hand down to the small of Dorian’s back, his fingers gently grazing along Dorian’s spine.

“All right, my l-love.”

They melted together under the covers, and slipped off to a comfortable sleep.

___

 

Dorian had woken, and pulled back the curtains to see how much of the day they’d missed. He was greeted by the tangerine glow of the sun setting over the Frostbacks. His heart was filled with a strange fondness for the image. Maybe because this was where he’d finally found the love he thought he’d never have.

But even if he’d found love within the walls of Skyhold, he knew that his future lay far beyond its walls. He wondered if his love would survive the journey. 

He looked over at Trevelyan, whose face was in a state of perfect peace. He lay back down, and rested against the pillow, staring at the face across from him.

He’d been able to bite his tongue for the sake of Trevelyan’s recovery, and because of his genuine concern for Trevelyan’s well being. But he and Trevelyan needed to speak, and soon. Watching Trevelyan fall into the Abyssal Rift only confirmed that losing Trevelyan would be like losing a piece of his own heart. But he couldn’t abide these perpetual risks that Trevelyan took with his own life. It was as though Trevelyan thought that the only solution was to sacrifice himself, as though being chosen by the Maker meant that he must perpetually choose the quickest way to the Maker’s side.

Missions had become less about completing an objective, and more about figuring out exactly how Trevelyan would try and get himself killed. Avalanches, giants, Archdemons. How much more creative could he get, trying to lose his own life? 

Trevelyan stirred, and his arm reached for Dorian, his hand clumsily stretching across Dorian’s chest. His touch was so sturdy and strong, but loving Trevelyan felt like loving on a rickety rope bridge, and Dorian was never quite sure when the bridge would give out from underneath him.

Trevelyan mumbled slightly, and he breathed heavily out his nose before his light snoring commenced.

_You don’t need to wake him._

Dorian leaned into Trevelyan’s touch, and pulled the covers back over himself, sinking into the fluffy down and Trevelyan’s embrace. He’d lost so much sleep; a little bit more catch-up couldn’t hurt.

___

 

Dorian wasn’t sure what time of night it was when they’d finally woke. Trevelyan was still lightly snoring, and Dorian was both parched and starving, a terrible combination, so he rolled out of bed and went to Trevelyan’s desk, where he’d found two trays of food with a serving cover to maintain their warmth. He walked to the closet, and grabbed a simple robe, throwing it over himself and tying it at the waist. He was never sure who’d pop up in Trevelyan’s chambers, and he’d almost been caught bare-assed more times than he could count. 

He sat in the comfortable chair behind the desk, and opened up his tray, the aroma of Tevinter spices filling his nose. He looked down, and saw a small folded note tucked away in the corner of the tray. He picked it up and unfolded it.

_Dorian_

_Thank you, again. I asked the chef to prepare something special for you._

_Cassandra_

Dorian folded the note back up, and tucked it away in his pocket.

_Thank you, Lady Seeker._

He poured himself a glass of the Marcher whiskey on the table, and took a delicate sip, before tucking into his meal.

He leaned back on the chair for a moment, savoring the taste of the food. The chair wobbled ever so slightly, the after-effect of being used in one of their many escapades. Trevelyan had shoved Dorian down into the chair, and draped his legs over its arms as he took Dorian inside of him. 

It hadn’t taken long for them to clear off Trevelyan’s desk with a quick swipe, careful not to smash any inkbottles against the floor, while Dorian took Trevelyan on his desk. He’d made Trevelyan come several times that evening, and had flooded Trevelyan with just as much of his own seed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the curtains rustle, and Trevelyan’s head poked out, his silver hair like a lion’s mane cascading around his face.

“Hey there,” Trevelyan growled.

“Dinner’s here, if you’d like.”

“I’m starving,” Trevelyan said, before stumbling off the bed and traipsing over to the desk. Dorian moved to get up from the chair and Trevelyan waved him back down. “No, no. Don’t get up.”

Dorian’s eyes gazed over Trevelyan’s body, and he had to stop himself from shoving Trevelyan back down on the bed and taking him. It had been so long since anything had happened between them, he was convinced that he would burst. He felt his cock twitching underneath his robes, but he had to stop himself. He had to wait. Sleeping with Trevelyan in the state would feel too much like taking advantage of someone who was a bit too drunk, and he would never allow himself to be so desperate.

Trevelyan opened up his plate, and sniffed. “Tevinter cuisine?” he asked.

“Is that a problem?” Dorian asked.

“Not at all,” Trevelyan said, “It’s just very spicy for me. My own lack of culture, I suppose.”

“At least you’re willing to admit to your faults.”

“Yeah, well, I have plenty to own up to.”

“Your speech, thus far, has been perfect.”

“Don’t jinx it!” Trevelyan yelped. “I’m trying not to think ab…” His face scrunched up in frustration. “About it. _Damn it!_ ” 

“Still, that was remarkable progress. Today was a massive step forward.”

Trevelyan was struggling with the piece of fish in his mouth, his lips pursed as he grabbed for a cup of water. 

“Hot. Hot, hot, hot.”

“Are you all right?”

“It’s just a little spicy food.”

“I didn’t mean that, and you know it.”

Trevelyan looked at him, and sighed, staring down at his plate. “I suppose. It doesn’t feel so raw anymore. But it was… I’m sorry. You must think I’m so stupid.”

“Why would you say that?”

Trevelyan huffed quietly, and turned away, strolling toward the fire. The flames splashed golden light across the lines of his body, and Dorian almost punched himself in the groin in an attempt to keep his mind focused on the conversation.

“I think I’ve mentioned that I was never a particularly talented mage. And I’m sure that a large portion of that was because I resented being in the Circle. I never paid much attention in classes. I was always dreaming of something, somewhere else. It’s a miracle I even got a chance to undergo the Harrowing, let alone survive it.”

“Walking to the Black City, even if your dreams, was a terrible idea.”

“I’m n-not arguing that.” A stutter.

“Continue.”

Trevelyan sighed. He was turned away from Dorian. 

“But you… you’re intelligent. Studied. Focused. Capable. Accomplished. I’m… embarrassed.”

“About what, exactly?”

Trevelyan took a sip from his glass, and sighed again.

“You are talented, and I… I was mediocre. I still don’t know how exactly I’ve managed to make it this far. I don’t know how half the magic I pull out of my ass actually works. You don’t need to rely on an Anchor. You’re… just better than me.”

Dorian sat, waiting for Trevelyan to speak.

“You literally unraveled time. That’s so far and beyond what I’d ever be able to achieve. You’re a genius, and I’m a dunce. And it makes me a little insecure. Talking about the Fade, about my reaction, about l-losing my voice… I was afraid you’d think less of me. _You_ would have walked out of the Fade without a second thought, completely unaffected. But I'm... I'm not that strong.”

Dorian stared at him. “Today really was a day of confessions for you.”

Trevelyan shifted on his legs, and turned back to look at Dorian. “That’s really all you have to say?” Dorian looked at him, befuddled. “Nothing else?”

“What were you hoping I’d say?” Dorian asked.

“Something other than that. Are you… upset with me?”

Dorian inhaled deeply.

“You _are_ upset with me. Is it because of my silence? I wouldn’t blame you. I’m sure I’d feel the same.”

“No, that’s not it. Leave it be, _Amatus_.”

“Why won’t you just talk to me?” Trevelyan shuffled over to the desk. “What is this really about, Dorian?”

Dorian sighed. There was no avoiding it any longer.

“When you fell into the chasm, into the Fade… I thought you were done for. I don’t know if I can forgive you for that moment.”

Trevelyan stared at him, his face stone and unmoving. He placed his glass on the desk, without averting his gaze from Dorian’s face. His glare was withering.

“You must be kidding me,” Trevelyan chuckled darkly, staring blankly at Dorian.

“Excuse me?” Dorian asked.

“I saved your life. I pushed you away from the crumbling ledge so that you might live to see another day. I’ve already served my purpose to the Inquisition – I sealed the Breach with this –“ he waved the Anchor in front of him “– and so long as you all survived, you’d find a way to defeat Corypheus.”

“Is that really what you think?” Dorian asked, incredulously. “’Oh, let me throw myself off a bridge, fall into the Abyssal Rift, and they’ll all remember me as a hero, a martyr for the most noble of causes.’ Are you _insane?_ ”

“So you are joking,” Trevelyan laughed, his voice bleak and mirthless. “I had absolutely no idea that the Anchor could open a Rift to the Fade. As far as I was aware, I was falling to my death. I didn’t think you’d be so upset that you had a chance to live, and return to the viper’s nest that is Tevinter!” 

“And now we’re at the heart of the matter!” Dorian shouted, pushing himself up from the desk. “You have quite a lot of nerve, to be painting me as the monster here. _Kaffas_. Every time you are faced with a problem, your first instinct is to tempt death in order to save the day and make your victory appear all the more glorious!”

“That’s hysterical!” Trevelyan said, pointing at Dorian’s chest. “You act like I planned all of this. I only jumped in front of the avalanche because I knew I was going to survive! I only pushed you all off the bridge at Adamant because I knew I’d be able to escape to the Fade! Because nearly freezing to _fucking_ death on the side of the mountain, or wandering through the _fucking_ Fade were such wonderful experiences. _Anything_ for personal glory!” 

“You’re attempting to deflect from the point of this conversation, which is that you take absolutely unnecessary risks after making terrible, unilateral decisions. Thank the Maker you don’t have actual political power, because you would have ended up an absolute _tyrant._ ”

“What the _fuck_ did you expect me to do?” Trevelyan roared. “Those were all split-second decisions. It’s not like I was actively attempting to hurt you, or anyone. You act like I relish being the Inquisitor. And after the _fucking_ Fade!”

“That’s absolutely irrelevant!” Dorian shot back, his finger jabbing into Trevleyan’s chest. “In those moments before you making some asinine decision, you’d think you have enough sense to think about me, or your own self-preservation, for even an instant! Leaving me here, alone, to pick up the pieces after you get yourself killed! _Festis bei umo canavarum_!”

“Like you’re going to leave me once Corypheus is defeated, to slink back to fucking Tevinter!”

“ _Kaffas!_ ” Dorian shouted, turning away from him. Trevelyan slammed his fist on the desk.

“Talk about a premeditated decision! _You_ have time. _You_ have the ability to think things through. _You_ have the ability to consider your decision, and how it’s going to impact the person you love. All the things you fault me for. You’re _such a hypocrite!_ ”

“You act as though you had no idea I had any interest in returning to Tevinter after all of this was finished! You know how much I love my homeland-“

“More than me, apparently,” Trevelyan muttered. Dorian ignored the interruption. 

“- and I was never going to just abandon it.” 

“I never expected you to!” Trevelyan stopped, the anger in his eyes suddenly subsiding, replaced again with the sorrowful gaze Dorian had become acclimated to. When he spoke, his voice had dropped to a calm, quiet, wounded tone. “I just… I wanted you to talk to me about it. I want to help you.”

“I don’t need your help!” Dorian continued, infuriated. “I can handle it myself!”

“Do you really think I doubt that?” Trevelyan asked. He sighed, and marched over to his bed, magicking up the curtains. He sat down on the edge, and rested his elbows on his legs, folding his hands together. “You are so smart, so determined. I…” he drifted, his brow knitted in frustration. “I want you to have everything. I hate to bring this up, because I’m betting it will just make you angrier, but the Birthright…”

Dorian’s ears pricked up, and he glared across the room, his eyes boring a hole into Trevelyan.

“I did it because I love you. So much. More than I’ve ever loved another person before. You brush things off like a joke, but I see you, and I know you love me, too. And I just assumed Tevinter was another one of those things, where you’d rather ignore the inconvenient truth that it’s looming in the distance, but I want to give you whatever you need. Coin. Protection. Whatever influence the Inquisition commands in the Imperium. I’d do the same for Cassandra, or Blackwall, or Sera or Bull or Solas. But you…” Trevelyan paused, trying to collect his words as he quietly tried to choke his tears back. “I would give anything for you. I would pack up what little I have and leave for Tevinter with you, after all of this is finished.”

“That’s foolish, and you know it,” Dorian said, attempting to dig his heels in, to prevent himself from being sucked in to the whirlpool of his own feelings for Trevelyan. “You can’t leave this. You are too important here; I would never ask you to pull yourself away.”

“ _You wouldn’t be asking!_ ” Trevelyan protested, his voice a hushed shout, as he slapped his hand into his palm. The Anchor sparkled brilliantly. “And I wouldn’t just up and leave tomorrow, Dorian, but the Inquisition isn’t going to last forever. Everyone else has a plan, or a place. Where does the Inquisitor go, after the Inquisition had ended? Is it so bad that I’d want to be with you?”

“You’ve gone and dragged the conversation away from my main point,” Dorian said, insistent, determined to avoid the feelings in his chest. “You have a death wish, and I can’t invest myself if I always have to worry that you are actively attempting to get yourself killed.”

Trevelyan stared across the room at Dorian blankly. A tear glittered down his cheek, and he wiped his face, turning his eyes toward the flame.

“I think you should go,” Trevelyan murmured. 

“What?!”

“You… this has obviously been bothering you for a long time, Dorian. And I’m thankful, really, that you put all of it aside, for the sake of me. It shows me how much you care. But maybe that’s the p-problem. You’ve been angry at me, and you’ve been forced to swallow it for the past few days because I was practically an invalid.” He paused, and looked up at Dorian. “Maybe you just need… some time away from me.”

“Is that what you want?” Dorian asked, angrily.

“ _No!_ Of course not,” Trevelyan whimpered, the tears gripping him once more. “I want you here. With m-me.” A stammer. “But I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t lose me; at least not to a blood magic ritual.”

Trevelyan stopped, and looked up at him. “Wait… are you talking about what I saw in the Fade?”

“Of course. But I’ve already worked things out with my father, if you remembered.”

Trevelyan stared at him. “I lied to keep you safe. But you don’t understand what it was that I actually saw.”

Dorian paused, his mouth dropping. “What... what did you see?”

“Your father had made a deal with Corypheus. You returned to Tevinter, and he’d sprung the ritual on you. It had all been a ruse, to get you to trust him, just so he could ensnare you. And it worked. I ha… I had to kill you, because I knew that’s what you would have wanted.”

Dorian froze for a moment as he felt his feelings rise up, like an enormous wave, threatening to drag him underneath. He managed to hold back the waters with sheer force of will before his mouth started moving. “It was just the Fade, none of it was real. You should know that.”

“You’re right. A decent mage would,” Trevelyan murmured, his eyes fixed upon his hands. “You should leave, Dorian. I think it’s for the best.”

Dorian stared at him, and Trevelyan didn’t move, not even a muscle, a strange departure from the past few days, when the tremors and winces would grip him.

Dorian stood up, and finished off his glass of whiskey in one swallow. His plate was nearly clean; at least he hadn’t wasted his food. He dropped his robe, and quickly made his way to his clothes, quickly pulling on his smallclothes and his pants, his shirt and his boots. He turned, and glanced at Trevelyan once more. 

“You say you’re afraid to lose me. So then, why this?”

Trevelyan rolled his shoulders, and twisted his head around, his body fighting him.

“I hate it. I want you here, with me. But you’ve been steeping in your resentment. You need a break from me. Or maybe you just need to be done with me.”

His hands shook slightly. Dorian wasn’t sure if it was because of the Nightmare, or because he was clenching them so tightly. 

“But you need the time to figure that out. And I can’t be here, clinging to you while you do that. Even if I’d like to just lie down next to you and pretend that nothing is wrong, it won’t fix a thing. We can’t keep going on like this.”

Dorian felt his hands ball into fists, and he stared down at Trevelyan, who finally raised his face to look up at him. He’d seen his face in pain so often in the past few weeks, it hardly would have given him pause, but this pain was different. This wasn’t seeing his fears haunting him within the Fade; this was seeing them come to fruition in the physical world.

Dorian turned on his heel, and marched toward the door. He walked down the stairs, not turning his face, just staring at the door at the bottom of the stairs. He opened it up, and walked through. He paused for a moment, looking back, praying that Trevelyan would appear at the top of the stairs, begging him to stay. 

If Trevelyan had asked, he would have.

But Trevelyan didn’t appear. And so, Dorian shut the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOPMH. Part deux.
> 
> It's all coming to a head. Dammit Dorian.
> 
> Another chapter where I don't feel I have to say very much. Trevelyan's obviously suffering from his experiences in the Fade, and it's sort of manifesting itself in a psychosomatic way. It hurt, writing this, but such is life. There was no way this could be avoided any longer. 
> 
> To any of the readers who are French, or are just amazing human beings: I'm so sorry for the horror that you are experiencing right now. I have had the distinct, immeasurable pleasure of spending a summer in Paris on a study abroad program, and the city became my heart. After dreaming of being able to go to Paris and actually speaking French for nearly a decade, to realize that dream was beyond anything I've ever accomplished. Know that billions stand in solidarity with you, and our hearts and minds are with you as you recover from this terrible tragedy and search for a way to bring justice for the terrible crimes that were committed against you. The City of Light and Love is a beacon to so many around the world, and in times of darkness, it is important that it shines all the brighter.
> 
> Thank you all, again, for the lovely comments, the kudos, the bookmarks and subscriptions. I hope that, even in times like these, where so many atrocities grip the world on a daily basis - in France, in Kenya, in Syria, and elsewhere - this story helps to bring a little joy to your day. 
> 
> XOXO


	28. The Heart Still Beats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of some combination of respect and/or courtesy, I feel the need to warn you that this chapter contains a somewhat explicit, violent sexual encounter. While completely consensual, I wanted to make sure that those who may have adverse reactions to such depictions - for whatever reason - have the opportunity to make an informed decision as per whether or not they would like to proceed with this chapter. 
> 
> With that being said, the story continues...

The dull sound of the piece sliding across the board was the first noise either of them had heard in several minutes.

“Oh, look, I’ve come to the end of my natural life, waiting for you to make a move.”

Another piece slid across the board, and Dorian exchanged it with one of Cullen’s pawns. He plopped Cullen’s piece down on the table, and returned his arm to the chair, leaning his face on his hand, his eyes narrowed with boredom.

“I apologize that I have proper technique, and consider my moves before I make them. It might do you some good to brush up on that particular skill.”

“Stop smarting me. You’re not taking lyrium anymore. I could light your chair on fire underneath you, and you wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.”

Cullen frowned, his eyes not moving from the board. He was no longer susceptible to Dorian’s idle threats, and Dorian resented it. 

“Of course, if you lit me on fire, I’d be forced to tell the Inquisitor.”

More than anything, Dorian resented that Cullen had apparently learned how to hit back.

“I withdraw my threat.”

Cullen smirked.

“Careful, or I’m going to fuck that smile off your pretty little face,” Dorian said.

“Making the idle threats more profane isn’t going to work,” Cullen drawled, distracted by his assessment of the battlefield between them.

Dorian sighed. Cullen shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his hand reaching up to the back of his head.

“I’m… no good at this,” Cullen muttered. 

Dorian arched an eyebrow at him, and realized what was about to happen.

“Don’t you even-“ 

“Do you want to talk?” Cullen asked.

“I’m going to be sick.”

“You’ve been miserable. It’s been a week. Are you going to speak with him?”

Dorian gritted his teeth. 

“I didn’t kick myself out of his room, Cullen,” Doran huffed. “ _Vishante Kaffas!_ That is not to be repeated to anyone!”

Cullen sighed. “I’ve kept your confidences before. And you’ve kept mine. Even if you use them against me every time we play chess.”

“And I still lose. I’m starting to doubt that I learned anything within the borders of the Imperium, about using my enemies’ weaknesses against them.”

Cullen slid his piece across the board. “Check.”

Dorian fumed. “You win. I’m not even interested in trying today.”

“So I can let Leliana know you and Trevelyan won’t be reconciling today?”

Dorian stood up, and debated smashing the board with his fist, just to prove that he didn’t need to resort to magic in order to make good on his terrible promises.

“I suppose that’s checkmate, then, Cullen.”

He turned and walked out of the door, on to the Bridge that connected Cullen’s office to the rotunda. As he strode across the bridge, he caught a glimpse of Trevelyan, his silvery hair whipping angrily in the wind as he spiraled around the sparring ring. His spectral blade was drawn, and he was smashing through several… Templars?

_How is he wielding magic? Aren’t they pulling the Fade out of his grasp?_

The spectral blade blinked angrily as he phased in and out of existence, before coming down hard against the shields of his sparring partners. 

For an instant, in the distance, he could swear he saw Trevelyan’s eyes lock his, and Trevelyan lost his footing, slamming into one of the posts that lined the sparring arena. 

Dorian felt his reflexes kicking in, his hand desperate to reach out and help Trevelyan, but he fought them, keeping his arm tucked at his side and his face in a stern gaze.

He saw the pain on Trevelyan’s face, as he heaved himself up, and finally broke his stare when he spun back and blocked one of the Templars’ blows. 

_Shocking. Normally he’d just let that blade stab him, and then watch as the Maker sewed the gaping wound shut._

Too bad it hurt Dorian more than it had hurt Trevelyan.

He turned, and continued his walk inside, gliding past Solas, who was putting the finishing touches on his depiction of the events at Adamant. A portion of the fresco was dedicated to Trevelyan’s adventures in the Fade.

_I’m sure Trevelyan wants that wonderful memory commemorated._

He stormed up the stairs and into his alcove and sat down in his overstuffed chair, brooding angrily as he pondered what to do next. It was only mid-afternoon. There was plenty of time before dinner, where he and Trevelyan would certainly exchange longing glances, neither of them managing to swallow their pride along with their meal and end this ridiculous fight.

_It’s not ridiculous. They’ve all poisoned you to think that you are being unreasonable. What is so unreasonable about wanting someone to promise that they aren’t actively attempting to get themselves killed?!_

_Normal people don’t need to promise such things!_

As if any of this has been close to normal. Trevelyan walked through the Fade. Dorian moved through time.

He’d spent the morning working up the nerve to talk to Josephine, to ask her very politely if she would be so kind as to see whether or not any of her contacts within the Imperium could procure a copy of the Liberalum. Of course, she politely agreed, but not without terms of her own.

_Just speak with him._

_My relationship – or lack thereof – with the Inquisitor is not a bargaining chip!_

_I’m not asking you to do anything you won’t eventually do on your own._

_This is none of your business._

_It is everyone’s business, when the pair of you go skulking about the castle as though the world was ending. Trevelyan is unfocused and disappointed, and you, well… it took several hours to clean up the mess you and Bull left after you decided to stage an impromptu sparring session. After the pair of you had consumed nearly an entire barrel of ale._

_So are you going to do what I asked, or not?_

_I’ve stated my conditions. What I will not be doing is diverting precious resources to clean up after you. You’ve been warned._

_Thank you, Mother._

The library was lousy with Wardens and Templars and mages, and Dorian watched as their eyes darted over toward him, before returning to their compatriots and whispering eagerly. No doubt gossiping about the Inquisitor and his Tevinter lover, and the rift that had grown between them. The nobles had completely forgotten the Inquisitor’s ‘illness,’ in light of the far juicier gossip that their falling out had presented. 

The sad thing was that everything that had transpired only made Dorian long for his homeland more. He was sick of the gossip, of the scrutiny, of being surrounded by a bunch of short-sighted nobles who were too self-centered to see the world going to shit around them.

_And you want to go back to Tevinter because things will be different… how, exactly?_

_You can at least kill the gossipy nobles there, Pavus._

Dorian stood up, and marched out of the library, past all the prying eyes and loose tongues.

He retreated to his room, crossing the balcony over the Main Hall and through the door, out to the walkway that overlooked the Gardens. He saw Vivienne, leading an older woman and a middle-aged man toward the Chapel. _Probably relatives of the Duke. I’m certain she’s only arranging this visit in order to bolster her own stock. At least she has some interest in self-preservation._

He yanked open his door, and slammed it behind him. He magicked the buckles on his boots, and stepped out of them, tearing his clothes off his body as quickly as possible. He waved his hand toward the fireplace, and ignored it as it sprang to life.

He yanked the covers back, and slid underneath, pulling them up around his neck. 

_Today was shit._

It was far too early to be calling it in for the day.

_Oh well. Maybe try again tomorrow._

___

 

Of course, sleep hadn’t held out nearly as long as he’d hoped it would. He’d woken up some time after dinner, and had to go and beg the cook for some scraps. 

_If only Father could see you now. All that righteous indignation about ‘staying in the South to do the right thing,’ and I’m reduced to begging for crumbs._

_How much further are you going to fall, Pavus?_

After filling himself up on whatever remained of the slop they’d been serving that evening, he walked down the staircase into the courtyard. He’d pilfered an apple to bring to Faustus in the stables, possible the only being in Skyhold who wasn’t eager to watch him pack his bags and ship off for the Imperium. 

He wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to give them a reason to cheer – pack slung over his shoulder, his silhouette marching across the bridge that lead out of Skyhold and into the world beyond, as he left the shithole South for the final time – or if he wanted to spite them and remain, just so they’d be as miserable as he was.

He’d kept repeating the mantra to himself over and over again: _You stay until Corypheus is defeated_. It was the same bitter elixir, failing to cure anything, just easing the symptoms of the malady that he suffered from: a case of falling-out-of-favor-with-the-Inquisitor.

He found Faustus, in the stall next to Trevelyan’s horse. Of course, when Trevelyan’s horse recognized him, it whinnied happily and stuck its head out of the stall, eager for attention.

_Not here to see you, you moron_. Dorian assumed half the reason he felt so hostile towards the horse was due to his frustration with its owner, but he marched past it and gave it no more thought as he leaned into Faustus’ stall.

“Hello there,” Dorian said, as Faustus moved forward in recognition. He sniffed at the apple in Dorian’s hand, as though it were the vilest thing he’d ever smelled, and look at Dorian as though he should feel ashamed for offering him something so revolting. 

“What? Not good enough for you?”

Faustus tossed his head superlatively, before peeling his lips back and gingerly taking a bite out of the apple. 

“Stubborn ass.” _At least you have a type._

Faustus snorted at him as it chewed. Dorian ran his fingers through his mane. It was exceptionally shiny in the light, and his fingers ran through the coarse hair without getting caught on knots or a clump of dirt. Someone must have brushed and cared for him recently. 

“Ah, Master Pavus,” Dennet’s voice called from behind him.

“Hello, horsemaster. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you. You shouldn’t be sneaking him treats; he has a terrible temperament, and you’re only encouraging him.”

“I’m breeding loyalty. Besides, his temperament is half the reason I appreciate him.”

The horsemaster sighed, as Faustus took the rest of the apple, shaking his head as though he were having difficulty swallowing the thing. His dramatics certainly didn’t stop him from practically inhaling the treat. Dorian petted him gently on his nose, and then on his cheek, before turning to leave.

“Thank you for brushing out his mane today. Maker knows he needed it.”

“Oh, you can thank the Inquisitor. He was down here before, taking care of his mount, before he decided to give yours a good cleaning. I offered to take care of it for him, but he seemed insistent. Said he needed to fill the hours before dinner somehow.”

Dorian paused for a moment, before collecting himself.

“Right, well then. Goodnight, Master Dennet.”

“Goodnight, Master Pavus.”

Trevelyan was utterly mystifying. Instead of coming to Dorian, he’d decided to play with Dorian’s horse. What possible purpose could he have in doing that? Did he think that Dorian would suddenly forgive him because he’d done a nice job getting the knots out of Faustus’ mane?

_Maybe if you get drunk, you will better understand his logic._

Dorian turned in the direction of the tavern. He shot a quick glance over at the barn, which appeared to be empty. Funny, he hadn’t seen Blackwall in… well, he couldn’t remember how long. A few days, maybe? The castle was large, and even if they spent most of their time apart, the Inner Circle always managed to catch sight of each other at dinner, or at other odd times. 

_Maybe he’s off on a mission with the Wardens, and you weren’t informed, because your status within the Inner Circle is currently tenuous at best._

He climbed the stair toward the tavern, his hand grazing the wall next to him as he strode briskly up the stone steps. The lights of the tavern burned bright that evening, and Dorian was glad that he might be able to lose himself in the crowd for the evening, maybe stow away in Sera’s little cupboard and listen to her prattle on about whatever it was she was in the mood to discuss. 

The tavern was filled to the brim with various members of the Inquisition – soldiers, scouts, what have you – and Dorian was about to meander over to the bar and ask Cabot for the usual: whatever would get him drunkest, quickest. That’s when he noticed the crowd in the corner, surrounding a notable guest of interest 

Trevelyan, tucked against the wall, laughing along with the sizeable group, as they clapped and leaned in to bask in the glow of the Inquisitor. 

Dorian debated whether or not to turn around and head back to his room for the evening. The day, like the several that had preceded it, was absolute shit, and he might as well just surrender to the inevitable. He’d already given up once, why not go for a second attempt at sleeping away his existence within the walls of Skyhold? It would be nice, waking up to find Corypheus defeated, so he could pack his bags and go home without having to lift a finger. 

_No! He doesn’t own the bar. You have every right to be here._

Dorian conveniently ignored the placard that read, ‘Herald’s Rest,’ and marched over to Cabot, leaning over the bar and putting down a gold piece.

“The Ambassador told me to watch your drinking, since you haven’t been doing it yourself,” Cabot said, frowning at him.

“Ha, ha, ha. A bottle of your deadliest poison.”

“You really shouldn’t phrase it that way.”

Cabot produced a bottle of liquor, and extended it to Dorian before pulling it away.

“This is all you get tonight.”

“We’ll see about that, dwarf,” Dorian scoffed, grabbing the bottle from the dwarf’s hand. He had a surprisingly strong grip, but Dorian finally managed to wrest the bottle from him and turned, headed toward the corner of the bar where one would usually find Bull and his Chargers. He was greeted by their familiar faces, but Bull was conspicuously absent. They were playing a game of Wicked Grace, but they played with the strangest rules, rules he hadn’t been able to quite figure out. He’d once asked Krem for an explanation.

_Ask Dalish. She’s the one who made them up._

_That’s not true!_ The elf had protested. _My archery instructor taught them to me!_

Dorian had stopped bothering to make sense of anything the Chargers did after that. He sat down beside them.

“Where’s Bull?” he asked, before uncorking the bottle and taking a long, deep sip. _An Anders Vintage._ He nearly spat it out in protest, but he remembered Cabot’s threat, and he didn’t want to test its veracity. 

“Busying himself with a pretty little thing. Not sure which way they went, but best not to interrupt him while he’s in the middle of the hunt,” Krem replied, focused solely on the cards in his hand. When Dorian had found out about Krem’s… situation, he’d wanted to discuss it with him in detail, learn what had happened to him, maybe find a way to connect him with Maevaris. Their situations were different, sure, but it seemed to Dorian as though they might find some common ground. 

He hadn’t quite gathered the courage to do it, though. Krem still acted as though Dorian were an enemy, and Dorian was too exhausted to bother attempting to make more friends; now, more than ever.

Dorian groaned. Bull had already torn his way through the majority of the women who worked in the tavern, and quite a few of the men as well. Dorian wondered who he was attempting to conquer this evening, but alas, he was smart enough to not go looking. He took another deep sip of his bottle.

_Better to swallow the bottle whole than to be forced to taste this swill any longer than you must._

Laughter pealed out of the corner where Trevelyan was seated, and Dorian, in spite of his better senses, stole a glance. Trevelyan was sitting against the wall, his head tipped back as laughter emanated from him. He turned to his side, and locked eyes with the person next to him. Dorian leaned forward to get a better view of whoever it was that was making Trevelyan laugh so hard, and caught a glimpse of the man seated to Trevelyan’s left.

He was wearing armor – the armor of a Chevalier – and had beautiful, lustrous brown hair, like melted chocolate that had been spun into strands and neatly arrange in the perfect side-part on his head, carefully trimmed to perfection. His crystal blue eyes sparkled brilliantly, laid in bright, wide eyes that were set deep in his face. His alabaster skin only highlighted the contrast between it and his plump lips, pink as the light of morning from laughter and drink. The slightest bit of stubble covered his cheeks and chin and neck, a carefully constructed attempt to gently diminish his otherwise well-coiffed appearance with just a hint of roguishness.

Dorian felt the jealousy burning his esophagus. He turned the bottle in his hand upside down, chugging angrily while his eye followed the Inquisitor and the Chevalier. 

“There’s far more to that story, Inquisitor, but it’s best saved for another time,” the Chevalier said, his Orlesian accent dragging the honeyed words down. _He sounds like a bloody idiot._ It wasn’t true, of course. His voice was deep and sturdy, and smooth like honeyed wine. Dorian wanted to freeze his tongue in his mouth and snap it off so he could never speak to the Inquisitor again.

“You know, you’d have an easier time eavesdropping if you were closer-“ Krem started.

“ _Shh!_ ” Dorian roared, before turning back to the pair of them.

“Oh, come now. Don’t leave us in suspense!” Trevelyan replied, his voice light and happy, eager to hear the end of the Chevalier’s tale.

Jealousy was a relatively rare phenomenon for Dorian, for there was little that anyone else had that he desired to possess. But he was quickly learning how fiercely territorial he could be, and as the fury rose up in his chest, he realized how much Trevelyan had changed him. He should be the one laughing in the corner with the Inquisitor, not some Orlesian tart attempting to peel Trevelyan away from the crowd, back to his chambers, so that he might finish the tale in between the Inquisitor’s sheets. 

“I apologize, your Worship,” the Chevalier said, his voice coy and inviting. Dorian would have thrown his bottle across the room, but there was still drink enough left in it, and he needed it more than he needed to smash the Chevalier’s face into the wall. “But you’ll have to wait to hear the conclusion. Perhaps over dinner, sometime?”

The crowd erupted into hoots and hollers, several ' _oohs_ ' and ' _aahs_ ' rankling through the ruckus. Dorian saw the smile spread across Trevelyan’s face, as he looked down at his lap. Dorian recognized the smile – the wan, reticent reaction – and understood that Trevelyan had no interest in carrying on with this lout. It was the same smile he’d plaster on his face every time he was forced to endure yet _another_ dinner with stuffy nobles, or when he was required to sit on his throne, in judgment of whatever fool had decided to cross the Inquisition.

Suddenly, Trevelyan’s eyes gazed up, and locked with Dorian’s. Whatever false happiness permeated them vanished for an instant, as Trevelyan’s face softened into a look of quiet hurt. Dorian was certain his own face had done much the same, but the alcohol had started seeping in, and he couldn’t be quite sure.

Either way, the magic of the moment had been ruined, and the Chevalier no longer presented a threat.

_Good._

He stood up, and walked around the bar to the stairs, cutting off Trevelyan’s line of vision to him. As he made his way up the stairs, he cast his gaze back to the crowd, and saw Trevelyan laughing his practiced laughter, as to not offend or alienate those who surrounded him. He’d gotten quite good at the game. 

_Now’s not the time to admire him, Pavus!_

Still, there was a quiet pang in the back of Dorian’s mind that he couldn’t quite rectify, the feeling that certainly, the Chevalier would be a far better match for Trevelyan than he could ever be. An Orlesian Chevalier would be quite the catch for anyone, really. Gallant, brave, their military prowess unmatched throughout all Thedas. Many a tale had been spun about the romantic gestures and undying love of Chevaliers as they rode off to battle, leaving behind a maiden who clung desperately to the handkerchief the valiant knight had given them as a parting gift, should their life be lost in the battle that awaited them. 

A Chevalier wouldn’t have created the uproar that Dorian had, on the arm of the Inquisitor, strolling hand and hand through the halls of Halamshiral after having saved its Empress. Skyhold would have been rife with gossip, but instead of wondering how the Inquisitor’s lover had managed to snake his way into the Inquisitor’s bed, the nobles would have painted a picture of two lovers from well-respected houses whose fate had been written into the stars by the Maker himself. 

Maybe Dorian shouldn’t have watched the display. Maybe he should have let Trevelyan fixate on something new, something better, something more… _appropriate._

_But then, why does his hand fit so well in your own?_

He scoffed at his own penchant for melodrama, as he rounded the corner toward Sera’s cabinet. It was dark, and he could hear none of her usual chatter emanating from her little corner. Maybe she wasn’t even there.

_Well, you’re already halfway there. Might as well check._

He poked his head into her alcove, and saw her practically hanging out one of her windows, her body twisted stealthily in the darkness. 

“Sera, what are you-“

She shot upright, and smacked herself into the window frame.

“ _Piss, Dorian!_ ” she yelped quietly, as she turned around. “I’m trying to catch a glimpse!” 

“A glimpse of what? Normalcy?” 

“No, you bloody tit. Qunari mating rituals!” She motioned to the window. “Be careful! We don’t want to scare it off!” 

Dorian took a deep pull from his bottle – he’d certainly need it – and slipped in the space next to her, peeking his eyes over the windowsill. 

“What am I looking for, exactly?” He whispered.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe _horns!_ ”

Dorian scanned the courtyard, which was empty – strange, considering it wasn’t particularly late in the evening, and saw motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned, and saw Bull’s horns, gently rocking against the wall of the stairway that led up to the entrance of the castle. Bull’s hand gripped the side of stairway, and wrapped up in it, a smaller, spindly hand rose up, fingers twisting in the night air.

“Is – is he…?” Dorian asked.

“Yup,” Sera said. “Some little elfy kid. Real cute, s’far as elves go.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Are you saying elves aren’t generally cute, Sera?”

“No way. Look at me. I’m right precious.”

Dorian huffed. “That you are, my dear.”

“Speaking of cute, when are you and the Quizzy getting back to that? I’ve got a bet with Varric on next week, and I’d like to not lose.”

Dorian moaned, and picked himself up, taking another drink from his bottle. If Cabot wouldn’t give him another, then he’d just have to go pilfer from the wine cellar in the basement. 

“You’re all going to lose at this rate. Maybe you should spend less time worrying about Trevelyan and I, and… no, that’s it. It’s none of your business, but as per usual, I have to hear all your opinions on the matter.”

“You asked,” Sera said.

“I did n… I certainly…” Dorian huffed, before stopping altogether. There was no point in fighting with her. “Good night, Sera.”

“Night, you,” she said, before turning back to the show in the courtyard.

Dorian debated going upstairs, to see if Cole was lurking in the rafters, but thought against it. If anyone was certain to talk to him about the state of his and Trevelyan’s affairs, it was the spirit, under the guise of “helping.” The sad thing was, if anyone genuinely wanted the pair of them to be happy, it was Cole, but his technique left much to be desired, and Dorian wasn’t looking to kill his buzz with a pep talk from the boy.

He polished off the bottle, and dropped it on a table near the stairs. As he descended, he focused on the steps in front of him, trying desperately to keep his gaze averted from the crowd surrounding Trevelyan. His self-restraint was completely inhibited by the alcohol in his stomach, however, and his eyes lingered over to find the crowd slightly dissipated.

Trevelyan was gone. And so was the Chevalier.

Dorian felt the pit in the bottom of his stomach, and panic overtook his mind. Maybe he’d mistook Trevelyan’s smile for reticence, when it was in fact interest. Maybe this was Trevelyan’s way of digging the knife into their dying relationship, and ending its pathetic life with one fell swoop of the crimson curtains around his bed. 

But their relationship was not dead. They were just taking some time. Neither of them had called it all off, not officially. Dorian moved quickly through the tavern, to the door, unaware of his surroundings, of the faces that moved past him, the lights and the colors all a blur, thanks to the alcohol and his own worried mind. Would Trevelyan actually have the gall to drag the Chevalier up to their bed and have his way with him? After everything the pair of them had endured? Would he really throw it all away on a ridiculous accent and a stupid, unfinished story?

Dorian wandered toward the stairs leading up to the castle, his mind a blur, quickly making his way up the steps when he heard a low, repetitive grunt. He looked to find the source of the noise, and saw Bull, pants around his ankles, pinning an auburn-haired elf to the wall below him. Bull looked up at him.

“A little privacy, please?”

“You should have thought of that when you’d decided to have sex in public, you jackass,” Dorian shot back. He looked down, unable to peel his eyes away. Bull was buried inside of the elf, but Dorian could see enough to tell that the man was exceptionally well-equipped. He might even have been thicker than Trevelyan, which meant that his dick was built much like him: less for pleasure, and more for destruction. The elf whimpered quietly, and Dorian glanced down at the top of his head, his face turned away from Dorian above him.

“Wait a minute… _Jarreth?!_ ”

The elf looked up at him, the same young face that had pined after Dorian those many months ago, blushing as he’d followed Dorian around the camp in the Frostbacks, The same face that had been utterly crushed, losing his little sparring match with Trevelyan as they trained to become Knight Enchanters. Dorian had seen him in passing since then, but his affection had subsided, and Dorian was happy that the boy had moved on. He didn’t want to be responsible for any heartbreak.

_But Trevelyan doesn’t mind, apparently._

Dorian waved himself away from the distraction, and turned, heading back up the stairs. “Have fun, you two!” he called after them, and could have sworn he heard Sera cackling from her vantage point. 

Once he was safely inside the castle, he stopped, debating which direction to head in.

_You wanted more alcohol. If Trevelyan sees fit to indulge, why shouldn’t you?_

He raced down the stairs to the basement, his heart beating a mile a minute. _The Chevalier was rather handsome, in that boring, classical way, I suppose. But I never would have chased after someone so… typical._ He scoffed, as he fumbled through his pockets for the key to wine cellar. _How could Trevelyan settle on someone so… banal?! After having had a taste of me, everything else must be as palatable as sawdust._ He jammed the key into the door, and slammed it open, his eyes wandering around for the right bottle. His eyes caught the small case from the winery in Qarinus, and he almost instinctively reached for one before stopping himself. 

_No. Tonight’s a special occasion. Trevelyan has proven that he is an unfaithful lecher. You deserve something exceptional to soften the blow._

He looked at the shelves above the usual stock, which contained prized bottles that they’d managed to procure from the dark corners of battlefields or ancient fortresses scattered about Thedas. 

His hand stopped on the Abyssal Peach, and laughed at the sheer appropriateness. They’d found the bottle in Suledin Keep, where he’d foolish drawn their faces into the condensation of the window, that there might be some eternal testimony to their love. _Ha!_ Abyssal, like the Abyssal Rift, a massive scar in the earth, where Trevelyan had fallen into the Fade. And Peach… well, he had no explanation for peach, but he certainly wasn’t about to let that stop him.

He uncorked the bottle in a quick, violent motion, and took a deep pull. The flavor hit him like a giant’s fist, practically knocking him off his feet. He wasn’t sure if it was terrible or brilliant, but after so many months of drinking the bile that these fool southerners called ale, he wasn’t sure his tongue could tell the difference. 

He sunk down against the wall, and felt the tears stinging his eyes. 

_You knew this would happen, Pavus. You know what happens, when you hope for something more. You hoped that you’d found an equal in Alexius, and that all went South – literally. You hoped that father would accept you, and the most you’ve received from him is a begrudging tolerance. And then there’s Trevelyan – all the stupid little hopes, built up over time, to be knocked to the ground and shattered with all the finesse and delicacy of a dragon pawing at its prey._

He took another sip, and felt his throat screaming in protest, begging him to re-think his choice in liquor. 

_No. You are not tolerating this… this nonsense! You are marching upstairs, blowing Trevelyan’s door off its hinges, throwing that Chevalier off Trevelyan’s balcony, and sending Trevelyan down after him._

If he’d been a touch more sober, Dorian might have rethought his plan. But alas, he was too far gone for his rational mind to even attempt to reason him out of this foolishness.

He charged through the basement, not even bothering to close the door of the wine cellar behind him, and stumbled angrily up the stairs to the Main Hall. He was practically breathless by the time he made it there, and quickly strode toward the door to Trevelyan’s chambers. A soldier was stationed outside of it, standing off to the side.

“Ser, the Inquisitor-“ 

“Do you want to find out how many ways I can kill you before you even hit the floor?” Dorian growled, pushing the door open. The soldier stared at him, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. “I thought not.”

Dorian groaned when he looked up the stairs, having forgotten what a hike it was to reach Trevelyan’s room, in his haste to catch Trevelyan in bed with the Chevalier. He steeled himself for the climb, taking the steps two at a time, determined to make it up to Trevelyan’s room just in time to find them in a compromising position, and throttle the pair of them.

Or maybe he wouldn’t even bother throttling them. Maybe, the knowledge that Dorian had caught Trevelyan in one of the positions he’d previously reserved for Dorian – and Dorian alone – would be enough. But would that really matter at all? If he was so callous as to drag the Chevalier upstairs, would he even care that Dorian caught them?

His mind rifled through all the positions he might find them in as his legs burned underneath him, his breath shallow and uneven in his chest, the liquid in the bottle sloshing over his fingers. 

Maybe it would be a vile kiss. Orlesians always used far too much tongue, at least the ones Dorian had slept with. Or maybe, the Chevalier would be on his knees, receiving _his Worship_ like a pliant supplicant. Maybe they’d be bent over the couch, or on Trevelyan’s desk, or wrapped in the crimson velvet curtains, Trevelyan driving every inch of himself into the Chevalier’s battle-hardened body. 

All of them were infuriating, each one making him sicker than the next. _Trevelyan’s door._

He caught sight of it, closed, at the top of the stairwell. He finally slowed down, and took another deep sip from the bottle in his hand.

He tried desperately to catch his breath and calm himself. He hoped his hair was still in proper order, and that he didn’t look too crazed. He wanted to be cool and controlled, even if such a task were impossible with all the alcohol coursing through his system. Dorian’s anger was righteous, justified even – he wasn’t the one indulging his pathetic, desperate followers by fucking them with his anointed dick. 

He managed to right himself, his breathing as even as it would get, and he moved his hand gingerly to the handle of the door.

_Locked._

Trevelyan never locked his door. Too many people came and went, be it members of the Inner Circle, Josephine, Leliana, the servants, for such a thing to be convenient. 

_This is quite telling, Gabriel._

Dorian waved his hand, mumbling a tiny incantation that unlocked doors with more deftness than even Sera’s quick hands. He felt the spell work its way into the lock and dissipate against an unknowable force. 

_Did he… did he magic the door closed?_

Dorian felt rage boiling up inside of him. _His magic has never outdone yours. It may be stronger, but it’s hardly as refined. How could he outperform you?_

Dorian had a few options left. He could blow the door down, but that would create a scene, and he wasn’t about to turn himself into the insane, jilted lover, blasting through the walls to get to his former flame. He may have been three sheets to the wind, but he knew he’d regret taking the door off by the hinges in the morning. 

_A last resort, then._

His other option was far more silent, and if Trevelyan was distracted with the wet, sloppy noises of sliding his cock into whatever orifice the Chevalier would allow, he’d never hear it.

Dorian grabbed the handle, and began to heat it, the flames licking hot around the iron. He continued the burn, watching as the handle began to glow, the black replaced by a dull orange, growing brighter and brighter as the seconds passed, like a brilliant sunrise in the palm of his hand. 

A few moments more, and the handle was shining in his palm, hissing steam, quietly splintering the wood around it, as Dorian began to gently twist the handle, jerking it out of shape, bending it, pulling it. He felt the whole thing begin to buckle, and with a quiet _pop_ , the handle came undone. He tossed the overheated hulk of iron down the stairs behind him, where it clanged quietly, pieces of its molten edges sticking to the stone steps as it came to rest on the landing.

Dorian quietly pushed the door open, and carefully crept up the stairs. He raised the bottle to his lips once more, praying for courage, and the fortitude to face whatever might lay in the room just above his field of vision. 

He poked his eyes above the stairs, underneath the couch, and saw the crimson curtains drawn around the bed.

For a second, he felt the urge to turn and run, to avoid this confrontation. If he pulled the curtain and saw what he’d imagined he would see, well, then… that was it. Something more would immediately be transformed into nothing at all. Their romance would vanish, like the end of a fairy tale where the witch’s magic only lasts until the first rays of dawn.

_Better you know now. Why keep the question hanging over your head like an axe?_

He quietly slipped up the stairs, and moved carefully to the side of the bed, his motions slow and stealthy. He attempted to listen for any sound, but his heart was beating angrily in his ears, and his drunkenness made it impossible to focus. He found the fold in the curtain, and carefully slipped his fingers inside, so that he might pull it back with one quick motion.

_Steady yourself, Pavus._

He breathed in, and tugged the curtain back.

The bed was completely empty.

The sheets were tucked in, undisturbed since they’d been carefully made by the servants in the morning. 

He stood, curtains in hand, bottle in the other, stunned by the lack of… well, anything at all. He was so certain that this was it – that the death knell of their relationship would be the sound of Trevelyan’s hips slapping against the Chevalier’s ass. But alas, there was nothing.

He stepped back, and let the curtain fall. He stood silently, at the side of Trevelyan’s bed, his face flushed, beads of sweat coating his brow. He breathed heavily, and his wide eyes couldn’t find a spot to focus on. He looked down at the ground, which seemed so close, as he’d never felt smaller and more pathetic in his entire life.

He felt the cool breeze wrap around him, and paused. He looked over to see the fire crackling in the fireplace. _Where is that coming from?_

He moved around the bed, peeking over toward the windows that overlooked the courtyard, and saw Trevelyan’s silhouette against the bannister, leaning over it, staring off into the night. He was wrapped in nothing more than a light robe. More importantly, he was alone. 

Dorian breathed a sigh of relief.

But still, a nagging thought. _Why would he lock the door? Who was he trying to keep out?_

Dorian felt his feet pulling him forward, the bottle swinging by his side. He moved, closing the space between himself and the balcony. He stopped in the doorway, staring out at the Frostbacks, watching Trevelyan’s figure, as he hand moved to his face. His back rose, taking a deep breath, before smoke began to rise around his face. 

“What are you doing?” Dorian asked, not even thinking as he spat the words out.

Trevelyan jolted for a second, and turned around to greet him. “Dorian?” he asked. “What are you doing here?” 

The question was not pointed or unkind. More surprised than anything, really, but tempered by the expectation that Dorian _should_ be here, in his room, not breaking into it. Dorian swayed slightly.

“Are you _drunk?_ ” 

“How astute, _Inquisitor_ ,” Dorian gurgled. “Were you expecting someone else?”

“Wait, what?” He asked, staring Dorian down. He narrowed his eyes. “How did you even get in here?”

“Through your magically locked door? Please. Child’s play.”

“That was a pretty powerful spell,”

“And I burned through it. You’ll have to get that handle on your door replaced, though. Made a bit of a mess tearing it out.”

Trevelyan sighed. “Did you really need to do that?”

“Why did you lock it? I figured it was because your little _Chevalier_ friend was up here, prostrating himself before you.”

“Cut it out, Dorian. Do you really think that little of me? To think I’d do something like that?”

Dorian swallowed hard, and turned his face out toward the courtyard. Bull had apparently finished up with Jarreth. He felt the tears begin to pool in his eyes, but he wasn’t quite sure which wellspring of emotion he was pulling from: that he was so petty as to think Trevelyan capable of infidelity, or his own frustration at his asinine behavior thereafter. 

He turned back to look at Trevelyan, who stood facing him on the balcony. He saw the smoke rising next to him, and looked down to see a lit pipe in his hand.

“What is that in your hand there? Are you _smoking?_ ” Dorian sputtered. 

“I don’t do it often,” Trevelyan protested.

“I’ve _never_ seen you do it, and we were together for a long time.”

Dorian heard the words spill out of his mouth, and was gripped with sadness. _Were together._ As though the conclusion had already happened.

“Like I said, not often. But I needed to relax before bed.”

“It’s a disgusting habit. Get rid of it. And come in out of the cold, you’re going to catch your death.”

“What do you care?” Trevelyan said, his voice getting irritated. “You aren’t the boss of me; I can do whatever I damn well please. You certainly do,” Trevelyan said, waving his free hand.

“Oh, yes, I forgot, _Lord Inquisitor_. You’re the boss of everyone. Should have spent your evening bossing around that _idiot_ Chevalier.”

“Dorian, I didn’t mean it like that at all,” Trevelyan sighed. “I’m not trying-“

“Oh, no, _you_ don’t have to justify your actions to me at all!” Dorian replied, pointing a finger at Trevelyan, jabbing him in the chest. “I should just get in line with everyone else, _bow down_ before you, be thankful that you were dropped from the Fade – by whatever it was – and exalt you.”

Trevelyan glowered at Dorian. “Do you even realize what you’re saying? You’re absolutely shitfaced, and you’re acting like an ass right now.”

“I’m fully aware of what I’m saying, _Lord Inquisitor_. Should I get down on my knees to kiss your feet now, thank you for saving us all at Haven, or at Adamant, whenever it was that you last laid your life on the line for the good of us all?”

Trevelyan’s mouth was a thin line, his lips white with anger, his eyes staring holes into Dorian’s face. Dorian swayed, pulling the bottle to his lips and drinking, feeling the flavor crash into him once more. Whatever enjoyment he gleaned from this little tirade was the most base, sad kind: he wasn’t outwitting his opponent, or trading barbs with an equal, he was just lobbing emotional boulders at Trevelyan and watching as they hit their target. It was a pathetic display, one that he’d never resort to when he was thinking clearly, but for now it was the only pleasure he could derive from this interaction.

“You know what? Fine. You want to be a petulant little teenager? I’ll play along,” Trevelyan said, tugging at the tie on his robe and yanking it off of his body, switching the pipe in between his hands as he revealed his naked body underneath. He held the robe in his marked hand, and pulled furiously on the pipe in his right. He blew the smoke out in a large cloud and coughed slightly as it burned his throat. Dorian laughed at his ridiculous defiance, before arranging his features into a serious visage.

“Come on, stop being an idiot, put your robe back on, and the pipe down.”

Trevelyan glared at him, extending his arm over the edge of the balcony, the robe fluttering in the wind.

“Don’t you dare.”

Trevelyan’s eyes narrowed again, a small smirk stretching across his lips as he dropped it, watching it carried off by the breeze. It landed on the battlements, quietly fluttering against the ground.

Trevelyan’s smirk extended to a smile, and Dorian raised his hand, flicking his finger out. He watched as the spell launched the pipe from Trevelyan’s hand. It spiraled through the air, falling, falling, falling until it landed, shattering against the well in the garden.

Trevelyan turned back to Dorian, and Dorian saw his muscles ripple angrily underneath his skin. It stirred something in him, the combination of liquor and anger leading to the next logical emotion: arousal. He and Trevelyan hadn’t had sex in weeks, and he was suddenly burning, furious, ready. He felt his cock swelling against his smallclothes, the sensation aided by the softness of his silken underthings rubbing against him. 

His mind screamed, and he shook his head, refocusing on the task at hand.

“Serves you right,” Dorian taunted. 

“You’re a drunken idiot, you know that?” Trevelyan spat, folding his arms over his chest. His well-defined chest. Dorian wanted to bury his tongue in the valley between Trevelyan’s pectorals. 

“Hey! Eyes up here!” Trevelyan snapped, pointing his finger up at his face.

“That wouldn’t be an issue if you’d kept your robe on, but you’re just so eager to strip down. Do you want me to go fetch that Chevalier for you? I’m sure he’d _love_ the view. Did you even catch his name?”

“I know the name of every man I’ve slept with, Dorian. How about you?” Trevelyan said, the accusation meant to be a pointed insult. Dorian laughed, his eyes still gazing over Trevelyan’s body. His dick had shrunk against the cold evening wind. Dorian wanted to breathe life into it, to feel its thickness inside of him. 

“I don’t, and frankly, I could care less!” He laughed. “Now go put some clothes on, so I can continue winning this argument.”

Trevelyan stepped forward, and yanked the bottle out of Dorian’s hand. Dorian tried desperately to grab it, but his balance was slightly off kilter, and either way, Trevelyan was physically stronger than him. Trevelyan brought the bottle to his lips, and turned it up, swallowing several times as he drained the remainder, before tossing it angrily. Dorian watched it soar through the air, listening for the inevitable sound of it smashing into the ground outside the walls of the fortress.

“I have a better idea,” Trevelyan said, sliding his hand underneath Dorian’s robes, onto his chest, and yanking the Fade around them. 

“ _Kaffas!_ ” Dorian shouted angrily, as he realized what was happening. Trevelyan was sober, and far too quick for Dorian, as Dorian felt his robes slip away underneath him. Trevelyan quickly grabbed them, while they were still cloaked in the Fade, and tossed them into the bedroom, before closing the glass door. Dorian tried fruitlessly to reach out and stop him, but Trevelyan had been careful to tune the spell just right, so that Dorian was completely intangible, and could do nothing to stop him.

They phased back into reality, Dorian shivering furiously against the cold evening wind, Trevelyan smiling proudly at his success. 

“Now it’s fair.”

“ _Vishante kaffas, it’s freezing!_ Let me inside!”

“Nope. Besides, you drank enough liquor to stay warm straight through to the next Age. I’m not buying this shivering act you’re trying to sell.”

Dorian frowned as Trevelyan’s eyes wandered over his body. 

“Are you… Are you _hard?_ ” Trevelyan asked, his eyes focused on Dorian’s cock, half-swollen with desire.

“Oh, _pardon me._ You’ve seen it a million times. Besides, you know how I am when I’m drunk.”

“Thank you for admitting it.”

“ _Kaffas!_ ”

Trevelyan leaned forward, and Dorian could feel the heat rising off of his body. The shivering began to subside. He looked up at Trevelyan’s eyes, and saw the anger, the sadness, the want and the frustration, all spiraling together in their recesses. 

“We are not having some heart-to-heart out here on this balcony,” Dorian spat. He felt the warmth spark up hotter.

“Please, like you’d even be capable of such a feat in this condition.” 

“Hysterical,” Dorian mouthed, his eyes wandering back down to the trail that lead toward Trevelyan’s cock. Apparently, the sight of Dorian naked had helped to bring him around, and Dorian saw that Trevelyan, in spite of himself, had begun to get aroused.

“Look at you, there!” Dorian laughed, reaching a hand out to grab Trevelyan’s package. He pawed at it furiously, feeling the warmth in his cold hand. He squeezed it, and Trevelyan sighed heavily. “Yelling at me for getting hard, and you’re not even stopping me now.”

Trevelyan glared angrily at Dorian, so Dorian gave him a rough tug and watched as Trevelyan’s expression broke.

“You want this,” Dorian whispered, pulling himself close to Trevelyan’s body, his dick slipping next to Trevelyan’s, so he could jerk them with one hand. The pair of them together were considerably thick, and he had to stretch his hand to its limits accommodate both. 

“We haven’t fixed anything, Dorian,” Trevelyan growled. 

“Do you really care right now?” Dorian whispered. 

“You will, in the morning, when you wake up in my bed and we’re still angry at each other. Not to mention the hangover you’re going to have tomorrow.”

“I don’t care right now,” Dorian said, “and that’s all that matters. You can remind me I said this tomorrow, so I can be mad at myself, instead of you.”

Trevelyan closed his eyes, and took a deep breath in through his nose. He opened his eyes, and Dorian leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Trevelyan’s. 

“Come on,” Dorian purred. Trevelyan stared back at him.

“Fine,” he said, shoving the door open. He pulled away from Dorian, and bent over the balcony, his ass pushed into the air. “Go get the vial of oil.”

Dorian was too drunk and too single-minded to protest. He could hardly remember his purpose for coming up here, and it flashed through his mind for an instant – _Chevalier_ – before he pushed it back down, smiling to himself as he rummaged through the drawer. 

_I’m the only one who gets to fuck the Inquisitor._ He wished the Chevalier had been here, so he could watch Dorian slip his cock inside of Trevelyan, and feel all the jealousy that Dorian had earlier. 

He returned to Trevelyan, who was still bent over the balcony.

“Is this how it’s going to be?”

“Do you have an objection?” Trevelyan asked angrily over his shoulder. “You got what you wanted.”

Dorian sighed, and stroked his cock, slapping it against Trevelyan’s ass. He grabbed a handful, his finger slipping into the crack, and he leaned forward, his mouth and tongue sliding across Trevelyan’s back. 

“Stop wasting time,” Trevelyan commanded. Dorian picked himself up.

“Right to it, then?” he purred, leaning close to Trevelyan’s ear. He grabbed Trevelyan’s cock, thick and eager between his legs, and tugged gently, squeezing with every pull. He felt the sticky sweetness of his precum between his fingers. 

“Stop playing around. You wanted to fuck me, Dorian.”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Dorian growled, before uncorking the vial in his hands and spilling it onto his fingers. He fumbled a bit, his fingers slowed by the amount of alcohol in his system. He slipped his fingers along Trevelyan’s hole, and pushed one in, not so gingerly. Trevelyan was so tight around him, and he felt him clench down even tighter. 

“Your cock,” Trevelyan said. 

“Ask nicely,” Dorian cooed, leaning forward. 

“No,” Trevelyan said, leaning on his elbows as Dorian pressed down against his spot. Trevelyan groaned, and his ass pulled forward, releasing Dorian’s finger. 

“Now,” Trevelyan growled. Dorian chuckled, and obliged, coating his cock in the slick oil. He moved forward, and grabbed his cock, pushing it forward to Trevelyan’s hole. He continued, his cock throbbing as he pushed into Trevelyan, his warm, tight hole stretching eagerly. Dorian continued easing in to him, rocking gently as Trevelyan’s head dipped down in between his shoulders. Trevelyan grunted lowly, as Dorian moved forward further still, sighing happily as he buried himself deep inside of Trevelyan. He felt his hips meet Trevelyan’s ass, and pushed deeper still, desperate to fill Trevelyan completely.

“Ahhh,” Trevelyan moaned lightly, his back rippling, the dim light of the fire behind him casting shadows over his muscles. 

Dorian reached forward, placing a hand on Trevelyan’s shoulder, his other hand steady on Trevelyan’s hip, and he pulled back, before sliding into Trevelyan slowly. It was perfection. Trevelyan’s hole was, quite literally, the most wonderful thing Dorian had ever felt, other than Trevelyan’s kiss. 

Dorian leaned forward, his lips eager for Trevelyan’s, pressing his front against Trevelyan’s back, his dick pumping gently into Trevelyan, as he leaned his face against Trevelyan’s head.

“ _Amatus_. Kiss me.”

“No,” Trevelyan said. “Fuck me.”

Dorian bristled at this, and stopped for a moment, before slamming himself into Trevelyan’s gut. Trevelyan gasped loudly, as Dorian repeated the motion, deep, powerful thrusts, as Trevelyan’s hole clenched down around his cock. 

“Kiss me,” Dorian growled, as Trevelyan moaned loudly.

“No,” Trevelyan groaned, in between thrusts. He glared back at Dorian, anger lingering in his eyes as his face twisted in a perverse pleasure.

It must have been contagious, because Dorian’s left hand found its way to Trevelyan’s hair. It tore at the strap that held his bun in place, watching as his hair fell out in loose waves. He entwined his fingers in Trevelyan’s hair, and yanked his head back, twisting his face toward him.

Trevelyan glared at him defiantly.

“I said kiss me,” Dorian muttered venomously. Trevelyan sneered at him.

“Treating me like one of your cheap Tevinter whores?”

Dorian twisted his fingers deeper in Trevelyan’s hair, pulling harshly against the strands. Trevelyan gritted his teeth angrily, as Dorian continued his long, staccato thrusts. 

“That’s all you’d be there, you know,” Dorian said, his words angry and pointed, spittle flying from his lip as the anger overtook him. “Maybe a little more than cheap, but a whore nonetheless, relegated to a life of pleasuring a bunch of ankle-grasping nobles. Having me would be a _blessing_ ,” Dorian took his time, enunciating the word, “instead of some fat, overstuffed _Altus_ with a sad, stubby cock that doesn’t even get close to hitting your spot.” He rammed forward, and watched as Trevelyan’s face withered. “Should I throw you a gold piece for your services this evening?”

“Fuck you,” Trevelyan roared quietly, unbroken by Dorian’s words. His eyes burned with hatred. “You arrogant, stubborn prick.”

“Wrong,” Dorian said, thrusting again. Trevelyan moaned. “I’m the one fucking you. It could have been a pleasant experience, but you choose to be…” he thrusted. “… defiant. In my homeland, you would be _nothing_. Not a talented mage. Not the Inquisitor. Not even free.”

Trevelyan screamed, and slammed his hands down on the bannister. He attempted to turn his head forward, but Dorian jerked him back angrily, and Trevelyan whimpered slightly, his lips parted as Dorian gave several swift, successive thrusts. 

“You want to be a cheap whore?” He asked, less a question and more a courtesy. Trevelyan no longer had a say in the matter.

“Don’t do me any favors,” Trevelyan whispered, his voice filled with a dark rage.

“Fine,” Dorian cursed, releasing Trevelyan’s head from his grip, and digging his fingers into his waist. He had no interest in trying to make this a pleasurable experience for Trevelyan. He picked up his pace, his thrusts long and deep, as he plowed into Trevelyan without abandon. Normally, he would take his time, change the rhythm, build up and slow back down, but not now. Now, all he cared about was using Trevelyan, filling him with his load and leaving him hollowed out and empty. 

Trevelyan groaned loudly, unable to restrain his voice. Dorian saw his knuckles grasping the bannister in front of him, turning white with the strain. Dorian grasped Trevelyan’s sides as though he were trying to break him, before freeing his right hand, putting it in the small of Trevelyan’s back and pushing it down. 

“Bend further.” He slapped down, and Trevelyan buckled, bowing lower, his face pressing against the bannister as his ass rose in the air. “Good,” Dorian growled, leaning back to watch his cock furiously sliding into Trevelyan’s hole. 

Trevelyan’s voice trembled with each thrust, as Dorian felt his hole tighten around his cock.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian spat, his hand slipping down in between Trevelyan’s legs, grasping at his thick cock, jerking at it angrily. He felt the streams of precum dripping down from the tip of Trevelyan’s cock, as he continued to jerk.

Trevelyan’s eyes continued to look up at him, angry, determined. He wouldn’t be broken, not by Dorian of all people. 

_He’s wrong._

Dorian continued to thrust into him, feeling the familiar sensation rise up within him. His legs started to shake, as he focused on getting himself over the edge. 

“Mmmmph,” Trevelyan moaned, and Dorian felt his knees beginning to buckle. 

“I was always very generous,” Dorian gasped in between his heavy breaths. “I always made sure to pay well, and made sure my whore got off, too. I can tell you’re close,” Dorian said, his teeth sinking into Trevelyan’s shoulder, as Trevelyan shouted angrily. 

Dorian felt the sensation overtake him, and his hand freed Trevelyan’s hip, twisting angrily in his hair again, twisting his head back so that he could press his mouth against Trevelyan’s ear. _He deserves to hear what a good job he’s done._

Dorian felt himself explode inside of Trevelyan, as he gasped into the side of Trevelyan’s head. It was the most exquisite sensation, feeling Trevelyan finishing in his hands, his hole clenching furiously around Dorian’s cock as he filled Trevelyan with his seed. 

Trevelyan roared, his moans somewhere been total pleasure and utter wrath. His eyes were narrow slits that gazed back at Dorian. Dorian smiled, satisfied with his work, as he lifted his hand, covered in Trevelyan’s cum.

He brought it to his own mouth, and licked it clean. He’d forgotten how wonderful Trevelyan tasted.

They sat there for few moments, before Dorian picked himself up and pulled out of Trevelyan, leaving him hunched over the balcony, gasping for breath.

“I forgot my gold in my room; I wasn’t aware I’d be purchasing your services this evening.”

Trevelyan looked back at him, his brow knitted angrily, his back rising and falling. Dorian glanced at his hips, and saw the bruises that were beginning to form there. Trevelyan rarely bruised. He’d done a bang-up job. 

Dorian walked back into Trevelyan’s room, unsure of what exactly to do. He was coated in sweat, his body slick and sticky, as he marched forward with his hands on his hips. The drunkenness has dissipated, thankfully, as he attempted to take stock of everything that had just transpired. He’d been riding on nothing other than the heat of the moment, and it appeared that by adding liquor, he’d made the situation combustible. 

_Kaffas, what just happened?_

He stood there for a moment, staring at his clothes in a pile on the floor, and up at the bed. Sure, he and Trevelyan had never treated each other like porcelain dolls, but there had always been a certain tenderness in how they would grab one another, even when they’d go harder, or faster. But this… this was cheap, angry, tawdry. He’d _used_ Trevelyan. Dorian suddenly felt nauseated. 

_This isn’t how any of this was supposed to happen._

_Trevelyan had been defiant, infuriating. He’d pushed the issue. I was more than content to let it go._

Dorian was just happy to find the room free of the fucking Chevalier, and then… it all spiraled off.

Dorian turned around and saw Trevelyan in all his glory, his body lit by the flames, coated in a similar sheen of sweat, leaning against the doorway, still breathing heavily.

Dorian’s feet carried him forward, and there he was, standing in front of Trevelyan.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Dorian gasped, suddenly at a loss for words.

“For what?” Trevelyan muttered, staring at him, his eyes tired, but still slightly angry. The question was a challenge.

“For everything that just happened. I have no idea where any of that came from.”

He was horrified, waiting for Trevelyan to react. Trevelyan continued standing in the doorway, staring at him blankly. It was far too reminiscent of Trevelyan’s deadened gaze after the events at Adamant.

“I do. Alcohol. Resentment. Anger. Jealousy. Some insane notion that I would be dragging a Chevalier up to my room. Really? No idea where that came from?” Trevelyan asked, the question again a challenge.

“I suppose all of those things together would explain it.”

Dorian swallowed hard.

Trevelyan looked down, and continued hovering in the doorway. 

“I locked my door to keep _him_ out,” Trevelyan muttered, under his breath. “How many nights have we sat by that fire, throwing letters from desperate nobles trying to pawn their children off on me? If he tried any harder, he would have had his head in between my legs in the middle of the tavern.”

Dorian frowned. “Yes. The Alcohol, and the Anger, and all those other things you said.”

Trevelyan sighed. 

“I don’t really think those things, you know. What I said… I…”

“You just needed to vent,” Trevelyan murmured. 

“ _Amatus_ …”

Trevelyan’s eyes wandered away from Dorian, staring into the room beyond the pair of them. 

“Is that what you wanted? To hurt me? To debase me? Did it fix anything at all?”

Dorian stared blankly at him. “No, I suppose it didn’t.”

“So, what then?”

“ _Kaffas_ , Gabriel, _I don’t know!_ ”

Trevelyan’s eyes gazed up at him, piercing through him. “Some cheap whore…” His voice trailed off. “It’s fucked up, Dorian.”

“I… I’m not denying that.”

Trevelyan frowned. “You’re trying to push me away. Make it easier to say goodbye.”

“I…” Dorian had run out of excuses. He hung his head silently. Trevelyan saw through him well enough, every time. He’d built up a wall, and fucked Trevelyan through it. He’d been hurt by some imagined sleight – that Trevelyan had not even committed! – and Dorian decided to hurt him back in the nastiest way possible.

Sex between them had always had been sacred, a near religious experience, at least for him. Dorian wondered if it was the pair of them together, or just the magic that Trevelyan seemed to bring with him. Dorian had never felt a connection in the way that he had with Trevelyan, their bodies responding to each other instinctively, even from the very first night in Haven. It had only deepened since then.

And now, Dorian had spoiled it.

“I love you,” Dorian whispered. 

“I love you, too,” Trevelyan whispered back. “So why are we doing this?”

“I don’t know.”

Trevelyan’s eyes glinted, the green light of the Fade twinkling brightly against the orange glow of the firelight. Suddenly, he moved forward, his arms wrapping around Dorian’s legs, heaving him up off the ground. Dorian’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, as Trevelyan’s lips sealed against his in a deep kiss. 

It was like Dorian had been underwater for the past week, and Trevelyan had given him his first breath. He couldn’t get enough of Trevelyan’s lips, as Trevelyan moved across the room and lowered them down on the bed, parting their lips for the briefest of moments. Dorian leaned up to kiss him again, and Trevelyan stopped him, his hand gentle on Dorian’s chest.

“My way, this time. You stubborn ass.”

Dorian smiled weakly, and leaned forward against Trevelyan’s hand, which slid up to Dorian’s face. Trevelyan leaned down, and kissed him. His pace was rapid, as though he needed to make up for all the time they’d lost, their lips tangled up as Dorian’s arms wrapped around Trevelyan, sliding gently over his back. 

Trevelyan was tender and kind, gently cupping Dorian’s cheek. He pushed Dorian back, turning him toward the pillow, leaning Dorian’s head against the soft down. 

He pulled back for an instant, and Dorian’s lips were left quivering in the air.

“Why did you think I would _cheat_ on you?”

Dorian shifted uncomfortably, as Trevelyan’s hand grazed his chest.

“I… I don’t know. You haven’t spoken to me in a week.”

“You’re the one who needed time, not me,” he said. 

Dorian stared at him for a minute, remembering Trevelyan’s words before Dorian had stormed out of the room. 

_Kaffas. You idiot._

“I was… jealous. For a moment, I thought how much easier things would have been, if you were with someone like him. An Orlesian Chevalier? The tale of your star-crossed romance would practically write itself.” 

Trevelyan chuckled quietly. “I’ve thought similar things. About Rilienus.”

“Rilienus?” Dorian paused, before the thought came to him. “What Cole had said, in the tavern that night?”

“Yes,” Trevelyan said sheepishly.

“Just because he would have said yes, doesn’t mean I would even think to ask the question now.”

Trevelyan looked up at Dorian. “I may have mentioned his name to Leliana. But I’ve never followed up on it. I don’t know if she ever did anything with it.”

“Of course she did! She probably has a dossier thicker than the Chant stored somewhere.”

“I had that exact thought!” Trevelyan smiled. “It’s nice to know the information is there, just in case I need to run a smear campaign against the competition.”

Dorian sighed. “He’s not competition, _Amatus_ ,” he whispered. 

Trevelyan rubbed his hand over Dorian’s chest, and leaned forward, nuzzling his nose against Dorian’s. 

“I love you. I don’t think you’ll ever know how much.”

Dorian leaned forward, and kissed him, a gentle, simple movement, that Trevelyan deepened nearly immediately, pulling Dorian close. He nibbled down on Dorian’s lip, pulling gently upon it, as Dorian exhaled. 

Dorian pushed up against him, and rolled over on Trevelyan, whose hands slid down to grab eagerly at Dorian’s ass. Dorian melted into Trevelyan’s body, pressing up against him, feeling their cocks rubbing against each other, as Dorian pushed further against Trevelyan’s lips. Trevelyan moaned, his hips rocking forward to Dorian, Dorian’s hips rolling gently in response. He wanted Trevelyan inside him desperately, his hole puckered and eager, Trevelyan’s finger swiping over it gently.

“Did you miss me?” Trevelyan muttered, as he pressed down, the tip of his finger just barely inside of Dorian. 

“Terribly,” Dorian whimpered, his hips rolling up toward Trevelyan. Trevelyan craned his neck gracefully upward, and Dorian met him in the air, desperate for another taste of his lips. He eased him back down, his tongue pushing gently against Trevelyan’s, as he began to move across his cheek, his tongue tracing a line down Trevelyan’s neck, Trevelyan bucking underneath the gentle touch, his hand grasping at the back of Dorian’s head. 

Dorian trailed his tongue gently down and around Trevelyan’s torso, as Trevelyan moaned loudly. He circled Trevelyan’s nipples, dragging his tongue gently down over the lines that ran across Trevelyan’s stomach, the perfectly shaped abdominals tightening underneath Dorian’s tongue. 

Trevelyan was thick and swollen, and Dorian trailed past Trevelyan’s belly button, his mouth far too eager to get to Trevelyan’s cock. 

Trevelyan arched his lower back in response to the gentle pressure of Dorian’s tongue, and his fingers stretched gently over Dorian’s head. Dorian took Trevelyan in his mouth, gently sucking as he worked his way down slowly. Trevelyan’s legs twitched underneath him, and Dorian grabbed the base of his cock with his hand, giving himself as much leverage as possible.

He was determined to make up for his prior transgression – nay, sin – against Trevelyan. The liquor still clung to his mind, but it no longer fueled his anger. There was nothing to be angry over. Trevelyan’s fingers gently rubbed Dorian’s head as it bobbed down in between his legs.

“Come back to me,” Trevelyan purred. Dorian stopped, mouth still full, and looked up to see him staring. “Oh, wait. No. Just stop there for a moment. That’s too good an image to not stop and appreciate.”

Dorian humored Trevelyan, gazing up at him as he gently bobbed up and down, his tongue running gently along the underside of Trevelyan’s cock. Trevelyan grabbed at his shoulder, and Dorian released him, sliding up to kiss him, pressing his body close to Trevelyan. Trevelyan’s hands slipped over Dorian’s shoulder, pulling against him, tight against Dorian’s neck, and Dorian’s hand slipped down in between Trevelyan’s legs once more.

“No,” Trevelyan breathed. “Just kiss me. We have all night for that.”

Dorian was more than happy to oblige, his arms wrapped around Trevelyan’s torso, as they gentled rocked back and forth. Trevelyan would roll over, tearing the sheets up with him, pushing Dorian’s legs back with his own and teasing Dorian’s hole with his cock. He was dripping precum, the tip sliding slick against Dorian’s hole, as he’d press gently forward, Dorian’s eyes rolling back as his hole began to give way. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, as Trevelyan buried his head in Dorian’s neck, biting into Dorian’s neck, a little too harshly, perhaps. 

“Trying to leave a mark?” Dorian gasped.

“You’re more than welcome to do the same, if you’re so concerned with Chevaliers.”

Dorian considered it for a moment, before Trevelyan gave a gentle thrust, pushing ever so slightly further into Dorian, and Dorian moaned. Trevelyan, having decided that he’d sufficiently marked Dorian’s neck, decided to pull himself away from Dorian, leaving Dorian’s hole wanting.

“Not just yet,” Trevelyan murmured, falling back on top of Dorian, pressing their lips together. Dorian wasn’t certain what it was, but something about it felt new. Or renewed, maybe. Like their last night in Haven, where they’d found themselves in bed for the first time.

A little spark of that magic remained between them, as Trevelyan continued to kiss Dorian, his full lips still as eager as that first evening. Dorian felt Trevelyan’s hands reach down, grabbing their cocks in his hand, gently stroking them. Dorian moaned, his body trembling underneath Trevelyan as Trevelyan pushed his legs back once more, exposing Dorian’s ass.

“I want to be inside of you,” Trevelyan purred, nibbling on Dorian’s lips. 

“If you’d stop torturing me and just grab the oil, you could have your way,” Dorian replied, his lip stuck in between Trevelyan’s teeth.

“No. I haven’t even eaten your ass yet.”

Trevelyan pulled back, and wrapped his mouth around Dorian’s cock, taking all of Dorian into his mouth, sucking generously as Dorian whimpered his approval beneath him. Trevelyan’s finger circled Dorian’s hole, as his mouth continued to slide up and down Dorian’s cock.

“ _Amatus_ …” Dorian whined, his toes curling with frustration.

Trevelyan released Dorian’s cock from his mouth, and slid his tongue back to Dorian’s hole, lapping gently. Dorian stared up, his legs pushed back, Trevelyan spreading Dorian’s cheeks apart as his tongue darted inside of Dorian.

“You’re so tight,” Trevelyan purred. “Relax.”

Dorian moaned lowly as Trevelyan’s tongue plunged inside of him, and Dorian clenched instinctively. He felt the flush burning his cheeks, and he continued to whimper as Trevelyan buried his tongue inside of him.

“ _Amatus._ ”

“Mmmmph,” Trevelyan mumbled, his face pressed in Dorian’s ass as his tongue flecked gently at Dorian’s hole before snaking inside of Dorian once more.

“Aaaah!” Dorian gasped, grabbing Trevelyan by the head and pulling his head into him. Trevelyan’s eyebrows furrowed in ecstasy, as his tongue darted rapidly into Dorian. 

Trevelyan picked his head up, gasping. Dorian’s fingers ran gently through Trevelyan’s hair.

“I could do that all day,” he purred, slipping forward to kiss Dorian.

“I wouldn’t stop you,” Dorian murmured, falling into Gabriel’s lips once more.

Trevelyan slid his cock against Dorian’s hole, grunting in between breaths, as he continued to kiss Dorian. Dorian reached his arms out, wrapped his hands around Trevelyan’s ass, pulling him tighter against his hole.

Trevelyan reached his hand out, and the vial of oil flew to his open palm.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, _Amatus._ Don’t keep me waiting any longer.”

Trevelyan slicked his fingers with the oil, and inserted one gently into Dorian. Dorian felt it slide into him, warm and gentle, as Trevelyan began to push on his spot. Dorian’s body tensed immediately, the wonderful pressure building up inside of him, as his body dipped down readily into Trevelyan’s hand. 

Trevelyan slid another finger deep inside of him, and Dorian felt them stretching apart and coming back together inside of him.

“Please… _Amatus_ …” Dorian muttered, unable to control his hips from rocking any longer. 

“All right,” Trevelyan said, completely in control, coating his cock in oil while his fingers continued to dig inside of Dorian. Dorian shook uncontrollably, underneath Trevelyan’s unrelenting grip. Trevelyan cast a sidelong glance over Dorian’s face and smiled, as his fingers pulsated gently inside of Dorian, watching with delight as Dorian squirmed at his command.

“I love when you make that face,” Trevelyan growled, removing his fingers from Dorian as he leaned forward. Dorian felt the tip of Trevelyan’s dick rubbing up and down against him.

“Which one?” Dorian whimpered breathily.

“When you’re trying to maintain your features, but they betray you completely.”

He felt the tip of Trevelyan’s cock press against him, and sighed heavily in anticipation.

“That’s it, right there,” Trevelyan murmured, before leaning down to take Dorian’s lips once more. He slipped forward, gently, slowly, as Dorian felt himself being stretched, his hole ready to accommodate all of Trevelyan. Dorian’s eyes shut as he felt Trevelyan sink into him, and wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to beg Trevelyan to move a little faster, or savor the sensation of Trevelyan’s cock moving inside him for as long as possible. 

Trevelyan continued kissing Dorian’s temple, as Dorian wrapped his legs around Trevelyan’s waist, desperate to angle himself just perfectly so that every inch of Trevelyan would find its way inside of him. 

Trevelyan sunk into him completely, and Dorian yelped slightly, the light ‘aaah!’ that emerged from his lips a plea for Trevelyan to begin thrusting.

Trevelyan kissed Dorian’s cheek tenderly. “Mmmm,” Trevelyan murmured. “ _Festis bei umo canavarum_.”

Dorian stopped, and turned. “Finally picking up some Tevene?”

“I picked you up, didn’t I?”

Trevelyan continued kissing Dorian, resting gently inside of him, before he slowly began to thrust, ever so delicately at first, pushing gently into Dorian. Dorian felt as though lightning were coursing through him, as Trevelyan began to pick up the pace, his hand grabbing at Dorian’s cock, pumping precum out of Dorian. Trevelyan continued to kiss Dorian, as Dorian’s lips began to move more and more erratically. 

Dorian’s head swam, the past several days floating by through his mind. His bed had been so lonely, and at first, no one bothered to broach the subject of their little spat. He’d clung stubbornly to his anger and even as all the members of the Inner Circle began to come speak with him, urging him to make amends with Trevelyan, nothing they’d said had been able to penetrate him. It wasn’t until he’d turned away from Trevelyan’s figure, bent over on the balcony, that he was able to release any of it.

But feeling Trevelyan’s lips on his worked some sort of inexplicable spell over him, pushing past all the anger and the rage. Trevelyan was the same man he’d flirted with hopelessly during their time in Haven, the same man he’d watched save everyone with one well-placed catapult. The same man he’d taken, time and time again throughout Skyhold, in every imaginable position. The same man he’d danced with at the Winter Palace, in plain view of all the nobles.

He’d looked so dashing that evening. For a moment on the floor, Dorian had forgotten where they were, the swirling lights and colors and music all fading away around him. 

More importantly, he was the same man who’d wanted more, and had fought everyone and everything around him to have it. 

Trevelyan had sped up considerably, plunging into Dorian in a steady rhythm, pressing up against his spot with each thrust, as Dorian practically squealed in delight. Dorian found his senses, and shoved Trevelyan back, as he climbed on top, laughing quietly at the awkward fight between their legs to get into the proper position. Trevelyan remained firmly planted inside of Dorian the entire time, as Dorian began to pick himself up and drop himself down, over and over again in Trevelyan’s lap.

He’d fixated on tiny moments. Their first night in Haven. The sound of the avalanche. Their dance at Halamshiral. When Trevelyan said that he wanted more. When they’d stood in front of Ponchard. When he’d admitted his love for Dorian. When Trevelyan fell, hand outstretched, into the physical Fade.

Each one was like a note, playing endlessly in Dorian’s mind. Some were sour, of course, but because he’d only ever think of one moment, isolated in time, the sour notes echoed in his mind like some sort of poorly tuned lute plucking the same chord, over and over. 

Trevelyan’s hand reached up to his chest, and Dorian grasped it, desperate for the contact, as his head bobbed back, the sounds escaping his lips in fits and spurts.

But it wasn’t one note, strummed repeatedly, until it drove him to madness. He was standing in the middle of a symphony, and he stepped back to appreciate the larger picture. Even those sour notes found their place within the overall melody, blending together into one song. It wasn’t perfect, of course, but it was theirs, and Dorian wanted nothing more than to lose himself to the music until the end of his mortal days. 

Trevelyan had picked himself up, grabbing Dorian around his waist, and Dorian dipped his head down, desperate for a taste of his lips.

“I’m getting close,” Trevelyan grunted, as he pumped at Dorian’s cock, pushing him back against the bed once more.

Maybe perfect was too much to hope for, but Dorian reminded himself that hope for anything was, not too long ago, a seeming impossibility. Trevelyan had reignited that flame, and reminded him that there was something worth hoping for after all.

“Come, _Amatus_ ,” Dorian purred between kisses, as Trevelyan sunk into him. He felt the familiar sensation rise up within himself, his hand replacing Trevelyan’s as Trevelyan focused his energies on delivering a final flurry of thrusts. 

“Let me know when,” Trevelyan breathed through gritted teeth.

“Now, _Amatus_.”

They exploded together, Trevelyan’s cock pulsing inside of Dorian as Dorian coated himself in his orgasm. They gasped and writhed as they drained themselves, Trevelyan falling on top of Dorian, their bodies slick and sweaty as they attempted to find themselves, even though they were perfectly all right being lost in each other. 

“I love you,” Trevelyan hummed. The only thing that Dorian could hear was their strained breathing, as Trevelyan leaned his head up to gaze at Dorian.

The symphony had died down for a moment, replaced with the quiet contentment of their post-coital glow. Dorian brushed a hand through Trevelyan’s hair.

“I love you, too,” he whispered, as he leaned forward, Trevelyan meeting him halfway so that they might kiss once more.

___

 

Trevelyan’s head rested in Dorian’s lap, seated in front of the fireplace, wrapped in blankets they’d yanked from the bed. 

_They make it for me every morning. I couldn’t tell you why._

_Those poor servants, having to clean the stains out of them. I hope you’re paying them well._

_Take it up with Josie._

Dorian ran his fingers gently through Trevelyan’s hair.

“No worse for the wear after… well, after earlier?” Dorian asked.

“My scalp is a little sore, but other than that, no. It’s sturdier than it looks, I promise.”

“Look at you, trying to make me feel better. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

“I was just glad to have you back in my room,” Trevelyan murmured, staring up at him.

“It shouldn’t have been at that expense,” Dorian said. “You always put on a brave face. You shouldn’t have to suffer me, on top of everything else.”

Trevelyan sighed, his eyes closing for a moment. “It wasn’t wonderful.”

“It’s a start,” Dorian said.

“Baby steps,” Trevelyan echoed, tapping his fingers on his sternum, the hollow sound barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

“I should have stayed and fought. How many times have you done the same?” Dorian whispered, his voice soft and distant. 

“No, I’m glad you took time. I missed you terribly, but you needed to sort through your feelings, without me hanging all over you.”

“You needed me. After everything that happened…”

“You did more than enough. Adamant was the just the final straw. And you stuck with me, in spite of all of that, until I managed to regain my voice. I don’t want you thinking you did anything wrong, love.”

Dorian stared into the flames. 

“Besides,” Trevelyan continued, “we’re going to have to get used to time apart, if you’ll be returning to Tevinter after all of this.”

Dorian sighed, and looked back down at the head resting in his lap. He stopped petting Trevelyan’s hair, and stroked his cheek gently.

“If you think I’d be leaving you, then you are sorely mistaken.”

“No, I… I know that.”

“So then, what is it?”

“I don’t want to keep you here against your will. You aren’t a bird I can stow away in a cage. I know what that’s like, and you’d only grow to resent me. I don’t want that. I know… I know that you’re going to loathe this, but I... when I unleashed that Mind Blast, at the end of the bridge at Adamant, I thought about how you’d be going back to Tevinter. How I couldn’t take that away from you.”

Trevelyan paused, and swallowed. Collecting his words, Dorian assumed. 

“I… I want to keep you safe. And I can’t do that, if I’m not by your side. What I saw in the Fade, Dorian… if that ever happened to you…”

He stopped, staring up at Dorian, his eyes pleading for understanding.

“ _Amatus_ , I know my homeland. I know when to refuse a glass of wine, because it’s been poisoned. I know when to avoid a dark alley, because I’ve irked a particularly vengeful magister.”

“I’m not questioning your aptitude. You are intelligent, you are savvy, and you are more than capable. It’s just… _Maker forbid_ ,” he spat, as though it were a swear, “I receive a letter, regrettably informing me that you’d been killed. I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

“It’s a risk we all take, every day. You never know who is lurking around the next corner – it could be a crazed beggar with a knife, ready to stab you in the gut, just for a chance to steal your gold.”

“But there are ways to minimize that risk. I could send you with Inquisition soldiers… oh, no, that would be too conspicuous. Leliana’s agents probably would be more discreet, and they would be better equipped to identify threats. I’m sure she had a few people who could blend in, pose as servants or something.”

“ _Amatus, Amatus_ …” Dorian stopped him. “It’s not as though I were leaving tomorrow. We can negotiate details when it becomes relevant.”

Trevelyan smirked up at him. “You are more stubborn than a bronto. If I don’t start wearing you down now, you’ll never agree to anything at all.”

Dorian chuckled, and continued stroking Trevelyan’s cheek.

“I suppose that’s a decent enough point to transition. You mentioned minimizing risks. What about the risks you take?”

Trevelyan frowned. “It’s… it’s complicated.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well… I guess… maybe it was shortly after I’d woken up for the first time in Haven? No… after I’d stopped the Breach from growing. It doesn’t matter when, I suppose. But I’d realized that my life was not really my own, any longer. All the lives of Thedas were on my shoulders. Only I could seal the Rifts. Only I could close the Breach. I know that we joke about it all time, but I guess that I just always assumed the Mark – the Anchor – was always going to kill me.”

Dorian stopped stroking Trevelyan’s cheek, and reached his hand down to Trevelyan’s chest, where his hands were folded. His fingers pried them apart, and Trevelyan held Dorian’s hand between his.

“Whether it was due to the magic of the Anchor, or just being ‘the Man with the Marked Hand,’ it was going to be the death of me. So I guess I’ve… accepted, in a strange way, that I’m only here until they stop needing me.”

“They don’t need you the way I do,” Dorian whispered. Trevelyan squeezed at his hand. 

“I don’t want to lose you. I should realize that maybe I’m not the only one who is afraid to lose someone.”

Dorian smiled. If he were able, he’d have leaned forward to kiss Trevelyan on his forehead. 

“I want you to promise me something,” he said. Trevelyan gazed up at him, eyes sparkling with the Fade.

“What’s that?”

“The next time you find a sword, please don’t look for an excuse to throw yourself on it.”

“Dorian…” Trevelyan started.

“No, no. Listen. I understand that I can’t save you from every conceivable threat. And as good a Necromancer as I may be, I can’t seal your soul inside of your body until I’m ready to let go. But that’s just the thing: I’m not ready to let you go.”

Trevelyan smiled up at him, a warm smirk playing on his lips.

“No more swords?” Dorian asked.

“No more swords.” Trevelyan repeated. “I promise.”

Dorian couldn’t stand to be apart from him any longer. He pulled at him, and Trevelyan rose up to greet his lips once more.

“I want to show you something,” Trevelyan said, rising up, quickly sweeping across the room to his desk, pulling out one of the lower drawers. Dorian never went into those drawers, because he respected Gabriel’s privacy, and because anything he might need was located in the upper ones – quills, ink, lyrium, oil.

Trevelyan ruffled through some papers, and found what he was looking for rather quickly. He plucked it from the drawer, and swept back to Dorian’s side, leaning against him as he dropped a small letter in his lap. It was sealed with a rudimentary, unornamented crest. Dorian turned it over, and saw his name scratched across the front in tight, sharp letters.

_Dorian_

“What’s this?”

“Don’t you remember?” Trevelyan asked. “I have the whole stack, still in my drawer.”

“Is this… they’re the letters you wrote before you went to seal the Breach in Haven?”

“I really should update them. So much has happened since then.” Trevelyan turned his face up, his eyes warm and calm. “Go on ahead: open it.”

Dorian turned back to the letter, and Trevelyan’s head leaned down on Dorian’s shoulder. He pried the wax off gently, and luckily, it had grown brittle over time and broke apart easily.

He unfurled the letter, and began to read. The message wasn’t particularly long, but considering at that time, Dorian and Trevelyan had only known each other for several weeks, he was surprised Trevelyan had left him anything at all.

_To Dorian Pavus, most recently of Minrathous,_

_I don’t know if I’ve thanked you enough for saving me in Redcliffe. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. Literally!_

_If you’re reading this, well, I suppose I didn’t make it, and the Breach is still open. But the future we saw in Redcliffe isn’t set in stone – I’m sure if you and Solas put your minds together, you can figure a way to seal the Breach._

_I mean, you unraveled time. The Breach should be nothing for you._

_We’ve just returned from Therinfal Redoubt, and Josephine encouraged me to get my affairs in order. Just in case._

_I felt compelled to write you something. I’ve known you for not very long at all, but I should admit that you…_

_No, that’s incredibly sappy. You’d just laugh at me._

_There are no words in the common tongue sadder than, “it could have been.” I find myself thinking often of what could be, and you seem to have firmly entrenched yourself in that place in my mind._

_You are incredible. Enchanting, really, but I’m sure you’ve heard that a thousand times._

_I’m sorry I didn’t last long enough to explore all the possibilities that existed between us. I think we could have been great together, you and I._

_But no point in dwelling. For you, at least._

_Be well, Dorian. You will change Tevinter, for the better. Of this, I am certain._

_Yours,_

_Gabriel Trevelyan_

Dorian folded up the letter, and rested it in his hands, in his lap, as he stared down.

“I feel like I’ve lived a thousand lives, in the time since I wrote that letter.”

Dorian reached his arm around Trevelyan, and pulled him close. 

“I’m glad I’m only reading this letter now, and that you’re the one handing it to me,” Dorian purred, kissing Trevelyan’s head gently. “You’re a terrible sap, you know that?”

“As though you’d ever let me forget,” Trevelyan purred, pulling himself back so he could see Dorian’s face. “I hate to even ask the question, because it seems so trivial, but… are we all right now?”

“I suppose,” Dorian murmured. “But then again, you haven’t had reason to try and get yourself killed in the past half-hour.”

Trevelyan chuckled quietly. “I understand. So everything is all right, tentatively?”

Dorian planted a kiss on his lips. “So long as there are no more slip-ups, everything is all right.”

Trevelyan smirked. “Feels like there’s a sword hanging over my neck, now.”

Dorian placed his hand on Trevelyan’s, interlocking their fingers as Trevelyan gave Dorian’s fingers a gentle squeeze.

“I’m not going to let you go without a fight, _Amatus._ Of that, you can be certain.”

Trevelyan leaned forward, his lips gently searching for Dorian’s. Dorian paused for a moment, almost unnoticeably, before leaning to greet Trevelyan’s lips with his own.

Trevelyan pulled Dorian up, and they stumbled to the bed, laying out the blankets haphazardly as they crawled underneath the sheets. Trevelyan pressed himself up against Dorian, not quite willing to let him drift off to sleep quite yet.

“It’s late,” Dorian whispered, in between kisses, protesting for some reason he couldn’t quite enunciate. He was tired, but hearing Trevelyan’s voice was a blessing. After weeks of silence, stuttering, and absence, he was just happy to hear Trevelyan next to him.

“I was without you for a week. I apologize for being a little needy.”

“I suppose there are worse things than being needed,” Dorian replied, his hands firmly planted on Trevelyan’s back. He felt Trevelyan lean in closer, and felt his cock swelling against his thigh.

“Again?” He murmured, bemused.

“We have several weeks’ worth of this to make up for. It’s going to be a rough few days, but rest assured, I am committed to the cause.”

He rolled on top of Dorian, and leaned down to kiss his neck.

“Fine,” Dorian sighed, as Trevelyan planted wet kissed up the side of his face.

“Hey, don’t play coy. You’re just as hard as me,” Trevelyan said, grabbing at Dorian’s cock.

“Let’s not ruin the moment, _Amatus._ ”

____

 

When they walked down to the Main Hall the next morning, Trevelyan would not let go of Dorian’s hand. They were late for breakfast, which would inevitably annoy Josephine, but Trevelyan had brushed away Dorian’s concerns by planting his head in between Dorian’s legs and not letting Dorian’s cock out of his mouth until Dorian finally acquiesced. Trevelyan, sneaky little demon he was, decided to slip a finger or three inside of Dorian’s hole, which was beyond sore from an evening of Trevelyan being buried inside of him. A few gentle presses against Dorian’s spot, however, and he was practically begging for Trevelyan’s cock.

_No need for that, love._

He’d come hard in Trevelyan’s mouth, what little seed he had left dripping out on to Trevelyan’s tongue. Trevelyan had dipped his head down even lower, and plunged his tongue inside of Dorian’s hole, pumping furiously at his own cock.

_Let me help with that, Amatus._

Dorian picked himself up, and seated himself squarely on Trevelyan’s chin. He looked back over his shoulder, and saw Trevelyan’s eyes peeking out just over the curvature of his ass, drunk with ecstasy.

_You like that, don’t you Amatus?_

Dorian leaned forward, and batted Trevelyan’s hands away, taking his time stroking at Trevelyan’s cock, licking, sucking, jerking, until he felt Trevelyan begin to shake underneath him, his voice muffled as he moaned into Dorian ass. Dorian bowed his head down, and swallowed everything Trevelyan had to give him.

When they’d finally managed to peel themselves off the sheets, they’d shared a quick bath, hurriedly getting ready to join the rest of the waking world for breakfast.

_I swear, you won’t be happy until I’m ejaculating air._

_I’m not sure that’s true, but I’m not opposed to finding out._

They stood at the door before the Main Hall, Trevelyan grasping desperately at Dorian, planting kisses across his face.

“ _Amatus_ , you’re ju…. You’re just delaying the… inevitable talking-to… mmmph… you’re going to get… from Josephine.”

“You’re worth the scolding,” he smiled, kissing Dorian, pressing him against the door, pushing his hands above his head. 

Dorian pretended to huff, but truly, it was a pleasure to have Trevelyan back by his side.

“Don’t leave me like that again,” Trevelyan whispered in between breathless kisses.

“Never, _Amatus._ ”

They finally had their fill – or maybe not quite their fill, but enough to tide them over until after breakfast – and they opened the door, Trevelyan gently allowing Dorian to step through first, Dorian’s hand still firmly locked in Trevelyan’s.

They looked over the Main Hall, and found Josephine seated at a long table, looking positively displeased, staring at the pair of them as though they’d just walked into the Main Hall naked. Suddenly, her expression melted, as she realized that it wasn’t just another morning where Trevelyan had decided to neglect his duties, and that instead, they’d finally emerged from the lingering shadow of Adamant fortress. 

She smiled, a warm look, as she ushered the pair of them over to the table.

“Inquisitor,” she said, motioning to the seat at the head of the table. “Please, join us, would you?”

“Certainly, Lady Montilyet,” he said, lending to the air of propriety, Dorian’s hand still firmly interlocked with his. “Would you mind setting another place for Dorian? Next to me, if you would.”

“Certainly, Inquisitor,” she said, her tone restrained to mask her annoyance. Shoving some noble down the line just so Trevelyan would have an excuse to turn this morning meal into a date with Dorian was not as high on her list of priorities as it was on Trevelyan’s. 

Trevelyan waited patiently as the seating was quickly rearranged, and fresh, warm plates of food were brought before them.

Trevelyan ushered Dorian to his chair, only letting go of his hand when it was no longer tenable for him to hold on. He sat at the head of the table, Dorian taking the seat to his right. 

Trevelyan leaned forward toward the table, and smiled at his guests. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. How are you?”

A few mumbled sounds of appreciation broke free from the crowd. A voice raised above the others: “How are _you_ feeling this morning, Inquisitor?”

Dorian narrowed his eyes, attempting to find the source of the voice, the snarky tone an obvious attempt to criticize the Inquisitor for keeping them waiting. 

“Honestly?” Trevelyan asked, completely affable, fork in hand as he prepared to tuck in to his meal. “Better than I have in _ages._ How kind of you to ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pieces have been picked up, inevitably. 
> 
> A few dark moments here, I think, and a bit of ugliness from the pair of them, but alas, they've come back together.
> 
> It has come to my attention that our journey is fast coming to its end. Several chapters rest between us and the end of Inquisition. A few more to cover the contents of the DLC, a hefty Trespasser Chapter, and an epilogue that wraps things up, and that's where our story will end.
> 
> I thank you for sticking around this long, and I'm looking forward to finishing this tale up once and for all, so you can enjoy the end of the story. It's been a long journey, for Dorian and Gabriel, for me, and for all of you.
> 
> But we've still got a way to go.
> 
> Thanks again for all the kudos, comments, bookmarks, subscriptions, and kindly recommendations. I've noticed that some people have been recommending this story on Tumblr, and it made me giggle with glee. You've all been absolutely wonderful.
> 
> XOXO


	29. The Song and the Shrine

Dorian lit another candle with a wave of his hand. The library was dark, and it was late. It wouldn’t be long before Trevelyan came looking for him, but he was determined to finish his work. Josephine had managed to procure him a copy of the Liberalum – bless her connections within the Imperium – and he’d already managed to eliminate a number of families who might potentially be the blood heirs to Corypheus’ legacy.

He’d narrowed it down to only three or four names. It wouldn’t take much more time, so long as he managed to maintain his focus.

And suddenly, he heard it – the light, lilting soprano filling the rotunda. Dorian stopped, looking up from his book, determined to find the source of the song. _You’ve heard this voice before._ He couldn’t shake the feeling of déjà vu that coursed through him. He closed his book, and stood up from his chair, walking carefully toward the balcony that overlooked the rotunda, when it hit him.

_The song of the Nightingale._

He carefully made his way around the rotunda, and moved up the stairs as quietly as possible. Her voice was haunting, as though a spirit had slipped through the veil and decided to fill the world with just a little more beauty. 

He poked his head up, and saw Leliana poring over her notes, a small ornamental box opened in front of her. 

If this was how she sounded when she was absentmindedly humming a tune, he wondered how beautiful her voice would be if she were actually trying.

He continued walking quietly up the stairs, and her eyes glanced up at him. Her song came to a quick end.

“Eavesdropping, Dorian?” she smiled at him.

“In all our time at Skyhold, I’ve never heard you sing. I suppose I’d forgotten how lovely your voice was, when we were gathered around Trevelyan after he’d survived the attack on Haven.”

“We were all focused on more important things,” she replied, folding up the letter in her hand, and sticking the end of the letter into the candle by her side, watching it being licked up by the flames. It sent a slight chill down his spine.

“How was your trip to Valence?” Dorian asked.

She gazed up at him, her eyes like a cat’s, toying with her prey. “I assume that he has told you nothing?”

“Nor have I pressed him to.”

She smiled, and sighed, before picking up another letter. “It was… enlightening. Freeing. I have the Inquisitor to thank for that.”

“He’ll save us all, one at a time if he has to,” Dorian smiled.

“He mentioned something to me about you returning to Tevinter,” she said, shifting the direction of the conversation away from herself. “I have several agents who would be more than capable of providing you any assistance you might require within the Imperium.”

“He’s already going on about that?” Dorian asked.

“Dorian,” she began, standing up from her chair slowly. “You want to reform Tevinter. To save her from herself?”

“I keep saying that, and it doesn’t sound any less insane.”

“We both want the same thing: you, for Tevinter, and I for the Chantry. But the reforms that you and I wish to enact will engender opposition. Threats. Violence.”

“Nothing new for the Imperium, I can assure you.”

“You will make yourself a target, and unless you can stop them before they take aim, your hopes of reform will die with you.”

Dorian frowned slightly, another chill rippling up him.

“I hope that I can change hearts and minds with my words, and not with knives, but once you become a thorn in the side of the established order, they will stop at nothing to remove you.”

“You always know just how to brighten up a conversation,” Dorian teased, and Leliana smiled. “Rest assured, I will be fine without an honor guard, or a network of spies to murder my opposition.”

“You don’t want to accept his help,” she purred, stepping closer to him. “Is it because of your time in the Imperium? Are you afraid of taking advantage of his hospitality?”

“Taken a peek at your dossier on me recently?” Dorian asked lazily. He would have been angry if it had been anyone else rifling through his past, but with Leliana, it was expected.

“Not as of late,” she murmured, the question still lingering in the air. Dorian sighed.

“I suppose I am,” Dorian said, trailing a finger along the wooden railing around the rotunda. “I need to prove that I can do this.”

“To whom?”

“Myself, mostly. My father, tangentially,” Dorian mused. “I’ve spoken about reforming the Imperium. I want to make good on my words and actions. Maybe I want to prove my detractors wrong: the wayward son of the Imperium returning home and leading the charge for reform.”

“So you hope to accomplish this alone?” 

“If I could, I would, but unfortunately, we both know that’s not possible. I have allies within the Magisterium. A scant few, but allies nonetheless.”

“And is Trevelyan not an ally?” 

“He’s… of course he is, but that’s not the point. He has enough on his plate without having to worry about my problems, which are just that: _my problems._ I don’t need him marching the Inquisition to the borders of the Imperium to steamroll his way through.”

“Give him a little credit, Dorian,” she chuckled. “He only wants to keep you safe. He understands the practical limitations of you returning home; that he can’t be your personal bodyguard.”

“He’s an _ass._ He’d get himself killed within a week.”

“Be that as it may, Dorian, he is trying, as he always has. Think on it.”

Dorian huffed, and leaned over the railing. 

“Love is a complex force, Dorian,” she continued. “It has driven many to madness, or to murder. It transforms men into monsters, and mages into abominations. Comparatively speaking, wanting to protect the object of one’s affections in as unobtrusive a manner as possible... is that truly so terrible?”

Dorian sighed. “I don’t suppose it is.” He looked back at her, and in spite of the strange mélange of acquiescence and his own exasperation, he smiled.

“Dorian?” he heard the voice from below, and looked down to see Trevelyan, standing outside of his alcove, his eyes gazing over the darkened library to check for his absentee lover.

“I’ll be down in a moment, _Amatus_ ,” Dorian called down. He turned back to Leliana, and nodded politely. “Good evening, Sister Nightingale.”

“Enjoy your evening, Dorian,” she giggled knowingly, as she returned to her table.

Dorian rounded the corner, into the middle level of the rotunda, and saw Trevelyan leaning against the bannister in front of him, smirking at him.

“Having some words with our spymaster?”

“She finally found out about all those blood magic orgies I’ve been throwing behind your back. Needless to say, she wasn’t pleased.”

Trevelyan smiled, and pulled Dorian in by the waist for a small kiss. “Blood magic orgies?!” He feigned shock. “Fetch my fainting chaise!”

“You’re just jealous that you weren’t invited,” Dorian chuckled.

“You’re lucky I wasn’t. I would have ended that orgy right quick. I don’t like to share,” he purred, cupping Dorian’s ass and squeezing it gently. 

“Exactly why you weren’t.”

“I know you were working on trying to figure out whether or not Corypheus has any descendants still alive within the Imperium. I didn’t want to interrupt you, but I brought you some cheese and a bit of honeyed wine.”

“How kind of you,” Dorian smiled, peeking over Trevelyan’s shoulder at the small tray that was precariously balanced on a stack of books. He turned, and planted a kiss on Trevelyan’s cheek. “I was almost finished for the evening,” Dorian whispered, afraid of who might be listening, “but _she_ -“ he jerked his head up toward the rookery, “-began to sing.”

“She has a lovely voice, doesn’t she?” Trevelyan replied quietly, leading Dorian back to his alcove, arms wrapped gently around the other’s waist. “A shame she doesn’t use it more often.”

“Haunting, really. As though a spirit of song were given mortal form.”

They stopped in front of his alcove, and Trevelyan released Dorian from his grip. “I’ll leave you to your work. Try not to stay up too late, love.”

Suddenly, the ethereal voice from earlier picked back up, humming hymns that seemed as though they’d existed since before the dawn of Thedas itself. The power of her voice was undeniable. 

“I can’t imagine I’d be getting much work done, not with this distraction,” Dorian smiled. “It’s the loveliest sort, don’t get me wrong.”

“No, of course,” Trevelyan muttered, gazing up to the rafters. “I can’t imagine paying attention to anything but that. Unless you were in the room, of course.”

“I feel a compliment coming on,” Dorian chuckled. 

“Can’t just let it come naturally, can you?” Trevelyan smirked. 

Dorian leaned in to kiss Trevelyan, and Trevelyan nipped playfully at Dorian’s lip. 

“Come. I’ll grab the cheese, you grab the wine.”

Trevelyan did as asked, and they carted the food and drink back to Trevelyan’s room. Trevelyan opened the door to the stairwell for Dorian, and Dorian nodded his head gently in thanks. 

In the few weeks since their falling out, and their subsequent mending, something about it all felt like they’d been carefully courting each other once more. Dorian supposed they were both secretly on edge, waiting for the other to slip up, steeling themselves against the inevitable disappointment of having another spat, another conversation, another terrible test of their affection for one another.

“I’m supporting Lelilana’s candidacy for Divine.”

_Or maybe, you’re just imagining things again._

“Afraid she could bury you with all the dirt she has on you?” Dorian smarted.

“Please. She could bury half of Thedas in a mountain of their secrets and lies. And no, it’s not that. She’s changed. She seems to have shed the burden she was carrying. She feels lighter, no?”

“It’s true,” Dorian said, pushing the door to Trevelyan’s chambers open. “And with the burden lifted from her shoulders, the Nightingale’s song is heard throughout Skyhold once more.”

“That’s almost good enough to make it into a Tethras novel,” Trevelyan chuckled, fumbling with the cork on the bottle of wine.

Dorian made a face at him, and broke off a small piece of cheese with a knife, smearing it across one of the small slices of bread before popping it in his mouth. It was exceptional, delightfully creamy with some earthy notes. He prepared another slice, and made his way over to Trevelyan, who was busy pouring their wine. 

“Mmph,” Dorian mumbled, his mouth still full, and his manners preventing him from speaking. Trevelyan looked up to see Dorian’s hand outstretched toward his mouth, and he opened it instinctively, carefully snatching the piece of bread and cheese out of Dorian’s fingers, before leaning forward to kiss them gently. 

“Mmmmmm… s’good,” Trevelyan mumbled through his food.

“I’m glad to see Josephine hasn’t broken all your bad habits,” Dorian chuckled, as Trevelyan offered him a glass of wine. Trevelyan chewed exaggeratedly, before swallowing, and smiling at Dorian.

“Can’t lose all that barbarian charm,” he clinked his glass against Dorian’s, and lifted it to his lips. He paused, and turned his eyes toward Dorian. “I think it may very well be a big part of your attraction to me.”

“ _Fasta vaas_ ,” Dorian rolled his eyes, and took a drink. 

“You can deny it all you want, but I know the truth,” Trevelyan said, turning toward the bed as he phased out of his boots. He grabbed the cheese platter from the side table next to his sofa, and rested it on his nightstand, as he crawled up to his bed, phasing out of the rest of his clothes in the process. 

“Come on. Midnight snack, and then bed.”

Dorian sighed, and walked over to the bed, the buckles that held his clothes on him coming undone as he stepped out of them. He peeled his smallclothes off, and set his glass of wine on his nightstand as he tucked under the covers, leaning into Trevelyan as Trevelyan fed him a peeled grape. 

“Mmm… tart,” Dorian muttered before swallowing.

“Aha! My bad habits are rubbing off!” Trevelyan chuckled.

“Don’t get too excited, _Amatus_ , or you’ll spill the tray.”

“Don’t want a bed full of crumbs,” he smiled, and leaned forward to give Dorian a peck on the lips. “You like the cheese?”

“Yes, it’s quite nice. Delightful texture.”

“Some noble from some bannorn or another sent it,” Trevelyan murmured, before digging into another small slice, spinning the knife in his fingers and passing the handle to Dorian, who took it to cut himself another hunk of cheese. He popped another grape into his mouth, skin and all, and bit down, savoring the sweet juice.

“Tell me about your day,” Trevelyan prompted, smiling. “No, I’ll go first. Mine is quick. In the War Room all day, still haven’t figured out what Corypheus is planning next.”

“Surely it had to be more interesting than that?” Dorian asked.

“No. Oh – we’re leaving for the Shrine of Dumat tomorrow. I figured you’d want to come along.”

“The Shrine of Dumat?” Dorian asked. “Didn’t Calpernia mention it in her conversation with Corypheus?”

“Yes. I’m just bursting with excitement,” Trevelyan muttered. Dorian watched as the goose bumps rose on Trevelyan’s flesh. The last time they’d traveled to an ancient Tevinter ruin, what they’d found there had eventually landed Trevelyan in the Fade, a feat he was in no way looking to repeat, much unlike his darkspawn Magister rival. 

“Leliana’s people have managed to locate it?”

“Yes. Whatever we find there could prove valuable,” he said, his voice lilting like Leliana’s. “Hopefully, whatever we find there doesn’t include an endless crevasse and another trip to the F-Fade.”

A stutter. It had been so long since Dorian had heard one shake his voice. Did the Nightmare still linger in his mind? Would he ever be completely free?

Trevelyan looked up at him with sad eyes, as if to apologize for the quaver in his voice. Dorian leaned forward, and rubbed his hand on the back of Trevelyan’s neck. “We will be fine, _Amatus_. No more unplanned excursions to the Fade.”

“One can only hope,” Trevelyan murmured, kissing Dorian’s neck as his fingers peeled another grape for Dorian. “So, how was your day?”

Dorian smiled, as Trevelyan brought the grape to Dorian’s lips. It was all so mundane, as though they weren’t sitting in the tallest tower of the epicenter of the massive changes that spread like waves across Thedas.

He took the grape, and swallowed.

“Well, I’ve managed to narrow down the list of names to only four houses that might be able to claim Corypheus as theirs.”

“That’s exciting,” Trevelyan murmured, reaching for his glass of wine, the tray of cheese and grapes teetering on his legs. Dorian grabbed it to steady it, and Trevelyan turned back to him. “You said you were digging through the Liberalum. Tell me everything.”

“It’s terribly tedious research. I’m sure you have no interest –“ 

“No, really. You’ve uncovered the genealogy of one of the ancient Magisters. It may be tedious, but it’s certainly invaluable.”

Dorian smirked at Trevelyan, who had shown precious little interest in books. Although, when he did read, he did so very quickly, without missing any of the details. Maybe he just wasn’t reading the _right_ books. 

Dorian would have to explore this theory at a later date. Trevelyan sat there, nibbling on bread, sipping on his wine, like an overgrown child waiting to hear a bedtime story. Dorian leaned forward to kiss him, and smiled. 

“Well, it wasn’t easy at all. I worked off the assumption that Corypheus was not his true name, of course...”

They stayed up for only a little longer, finishing their food and Dorian’s tale of the time he single-handedly untangled the Liberalum and put a name to one of the seven Magisters who cut through the Veil and unleashed the Blight upon the world. 

Trevelyan listened attentively, and when they were finished, he pulled Dorian into the nook as they both drifted off to sleep. Dorian had spent every night since returning to Trevelyan’s chambers nestled gently in his arms, and wasn’t quite sure when he’d stop wanting to feel that closeness.

_No time soon_ , he thought, as he drifted off to sleep.

___

 

The Shrine of Dumat was beautiful. At least, it had been, at some point in time. Now, it was laid to ruin, huge chunks of the battlements torn down and lit aflame. Red Templars and demons ran amok through the courtyard, and Trevelyan was doing a blindingly fast job of cleaning them up.

It was mildly infuriating that at every turn, when Dorian would attempt to launch a spell at some wayward demon, that Trevelyan would seemingly appear out of thin air and obliterate the beast with a wave of his Spirit Blade. Dorian wondered where the sudden fervor had come from, and part of him believed that it was anger. Anger for everything Trevelyan had suffered at the hands of their master, Corypheus. Whatever it was, it had driven his spellcraft to dizzying heights, as he arced across the battlefield, drawing deeply from the Fade as he sent his foes back to it.

The field was littered with glittering red corpses and the flames of the destroyed structure, a vivid portrait of destruction only highlighted by the deep blues of midnight that coated the fortress. The moon hung heavy in the sky, glittering, silver, radiant; distant, and unperturbed as it glided through the heavens, oblivious to the chaos that reigned below.

Trevelyan turned back to them, speckles of blood staining his pale blue robes. 

“Let’s go!”

They followed eagerly, up toward the entrance to the ancient Tevinter outpost. Cullen had joined them for this particular venture, his helm fashioned in the shape of a lion, roaring across the battlefield. He’d been eager to raise his sword, for once, instead of guiding a thousand others on the battlefield. He also had a personal stake in seeing Samson stopped. Dagna’s research had proven fruitful, but without more information on how his armor had been crafted to withstand the taint of red lyrium, she would be unable to do much more than speculate on how to stop him. 

Furthermore, the smuggler’s letters they’d recovered from the Emerald Graves had made mention of a character named Maddox, with whom Cullen was familiar from his time serving under Knight Commander Meredith in Kirkwall. Another victim of Meredith’s wrath, he’d been branded with the Sunburst seal and his connection to the Fade violently severed. Meredith was, in a way, the very first Red Templar, and Cullen was eager to see that particular branch of the order obliterated. 

Cassandra had joined them as well, her coat billowing in the wind like some sort of romantic heroine who’d decided that she was tired of waiting for her prince to come and save her. The Inquisitor and the Seeker had grown increasingly close. He had not yet informed her that he would be supporting Leliana’s candidacy for the Divine, Dorian imagined, because he would very much like to avoid the throttling she would no doubt give him. Besides, Trevelyan still saw some value in the Seekers of Truth, and there was no one in his mind better suited to help reform the Order. 

Blackwall had also come along, Dorian suspected, as penance. Trevelyan had rushed to Val Royeaux when he’d realized what Blackwall was about to do, writing several furious letters to Leliana on their journey. Dorian had only caught a glimpse of one or two of them, and could barely make out the phrases ‘ _massive violation of trust_ ’ and ‘ _absolutely mind-boggling omission_ ’ from the rest of the angry scratches that Trevelyan had penned in a fury. 

_She should have told me._

_She must have had her reasons_ , Dorian pleaded. 

_I cannot wait to hear them_ , Trevelyan had muttered.

Trevelyan had been positively beside himself, wringing his hands unconsciously as he debated what he was going to do with Thom Rainier. Standing by the door to the Main Hall as Rainier was being brought up from the cells, he’d still been unsure of what to do.

_Saving him would be endorsing cold-blooded murder_ , he’d fretted. 

_Murders that happened ten years ago_ , Dorian reminded. _He’s a changed man. Besides, punishing him would defeat the purpose of saving him from the punishment he faced in Val Royeaux. They had already tied the noose that was meant for his neck, I’m sure of it._

Dorian was shocked to hear himself defending Blackwall, of all people. 

_Arguing the counterpoint is not helping_ , Trevelyan whined, huffing anxiously as he paced in front of the door. 

_So then send him off to the Wardens. Make him undergo the Joining. He pawned himself off as a Warden for so long, might as well give his tale some credence, albeit a decade too late._

_Stop_ , Trevelyan had pleaded, as a knock came at the door. 

_We’re ready, Lord Inquisitor._

Trevelyan righted his features, and opened the door for judgment. Dorian had followed, leaning against the doorway to Trevelyan’s chambers, waiting with bated breath as Trevelyan handed down his sentence.

_You have your freedom._

Rainier had gazed up at the throne, and shook his head in disbelief. _It cannot be as simple as that._

_It isn’t. You’re free to atone as the man you are, not the traitor you thought you were, or the Warden you pretended to be._

_The man I am? I barely know him. He… I have a lot to make up for._ He bowed his head in thought, before returning his eyes to the Inquisitor. _If my future is mine, then I pledge it to the Inquisition. My sword is yours._

Trevelyan’s face had finally relaxed slightly, before Rainier decided to speak again.

_If I’d said anything less, would an arrow from the rookery have snuffed me like a candle?_

_Take your post, Thom Rainier._

As the Inquisition soldiers had unshackled him, he gave Dorian a sideways glance, his eyes full of… was it _gratitude?_ Dorian wondered if Blackwall thought he’d had anything to do with his release.

Thankfully, Dorian hadn’t had to wait very long. The day after his trial, Blackwall had decided to pay Dorian a visit in his study. 

_You haven’t been gone long enough to have forgotten the way to the stables_ , Dorian lilted, when he’d caught a glimpse of Blackwall standing just outside of his alcove. 

_I wanted to thank you._

_Whatever for?_

_I know you had something to do with my release. I’m not quite sure what, and I’m not going to ask._

_And again, you display that what little you know couldn’t fill a thimble_ , Dorian smarted, irritated that Blackwall – _Rainier_ – had pried him away from the Liberalum. _I had absolutely nothing to do with your release. Trevelyan agonized over the decision up until the very last moment. I merely provided countervailing arguments._

Blackwall huffed, and Dorian arched an eyebrow at him. Dorian snorted, and rested his head in his outstretched palm. 

_What did you think he would do? Take you out of one prison just to lock you in another, be it an actual physical cell, or a proverbial one? He may be an ass from time to time, but he’s not an idiot, Black- Rainier._

Blackwall smiled, and nodded. 

_Blackwall will do just fine. And thank you, again._

He left without another word, and Dorian sighed, his eyes returning to the Liberalum in his lap. 

_Saving strays now, Pavus? Your charity knows no bounds._

Varric had also decided to tag along, though Dorian was uncertain whether or not the dwarf was looking for a way to help end the menace that red lyrium presented, or just more reasons to complain. His endless wellspring had seemingly diminished, even after the unfortunate visit he’d received from his former – or was it current? – flame.

Bianca – the woman, not the crossbow – had dragged them down into the depths of a thaig, apparently one that the Inquisition had visited once before. Her carelessness had given Corypheus access to a red lyrium mine, and of course, she’d called in reinforcements to help clean up her mess. 

_Must be a dwarven idiosyncrasy._

Most startling of all was the revelation that what had apparently turned the lyrium red in the first place was the Blight – the very same taint that turned living, sentient beings into the mindless horde that all Thedas knew as darkspawn, the terrible sickness that Corypheus himself was responsible for unleashing upon the world. 

The implications were shocking. The Blight could only infect living things, which would mean that lyrium itself was living, or that it might have been, at some point. 

Of course, this would require extensive research, to not only validate Bianca’s claims, but to determine the exact nature of lyrium. If it was alive, then what made it so? It appeared to be mineral, not organic. Then again, nothing in Thedas was as simple as what it might seem.

It hardly seemed relevant now, as a pair of Red Templars barreled down upon them. Trevelyan cut them down singularly, with an unmatched grace and ease.

“He’s gotten good at this,” Varric muttered alongside Dorian, his voice quiet as to not be overheard.

“ _Too_ good,” Dorian mouthed back. Trevelyan’s technique had improved exponentially, and Dorian was uncertain the reason for his marked growth. Dorian was a talented mage, and the art of manipulating the Fade for his purposes came easily to him. But he’d trained, honed his craft to perfection. Maybe not perfection, but as close as one could come, and he’d admit to no less. 

Trevelyan had trained, however, but his talent came in fits and spurts. One day, he would be tossing fireballs across the courtyard, and the next, he’d be launching searing infernos at a sea of Templars with nary a thought. 

Dorian wanted desperately to uncover the secret behind his mastery, but it would have to wait. They’d entered the hall, and the sounds of screeching demons were far more pressing than uncovering the mystery behind Trevelyan’s marked improvement in thaumaturgical skill. 

Cassandra launched herself forward, desperate to kill something, _anything_ , before Trevelyan had a chance to take it down, and kill she did, deflecting the blow of the terror demon with ease as she lopped its leg off with a swift strike of her axe. 

“Watch out, Seeker!” Varric called, and she rolled back as he launched an explosive arrow at the demon. It landed square in its overblown, toothy maw, and with a thunderous _boom!_ the demon’s head was splattered across the floor.

In the time it had taken for them to fell the one demon, Trevelyan had slaughtered the other three, leaving nothing behind as they faded into green shimmering light.

“Come on,” Trevelyan muttered, as he continued marching toward the end of the long hall. The subterranean level was exposed, visible over the balcony, shrouded in darkness. 

“What’s this?” Trevelyan muttered, stopped before what appeared to be an altar. Dorian followed his gaze to the red cluster of crystals heaped on top of the altar. 

“It looks like red lyrium, but not exactly,” Varric said, as Trevelyan reached his hand out to touch it.

“ _Amatus_ …” Dorian started, before he was rudely interrupted by the voice of Corypheus, echoing through the chamber.

_Awake, in a world twisted into perversion and ruin. Awake, only to discover the light of wisdom has gone black._

“What is-“ Cassandra started.

“Shhh!” Trevelyan hushed her, turning back to the crystal.

_If Calpernia should falter, then Samson stands ready._

“A memory crystal?” Varric hummed. “With Corypheus’ memories?”

“It would appear so,” Cassandra muttered. “This must have something to do with the ‘Vessel’ they spoke of. Corypheus must be hoping that Calpernia would assume the role of ‘Vessel.’ But he must understand that she’s not completely committed to the cause, and so he’s enlisted Samson as a fail safe.”

“Whatever he’s intending to use this Vessel for, it must be of the utmost importance,” Dorian added. “But what could it be? Substituting Samson for Calpernia… they could hardly be more different.”

“This is an awfully frustrating mystery,” Cullen muttered.

“Come, there’s another over there. Maybe the other crystals will give us some insight.”

They continued searching through the ruins, hoping they might find some piece of the puzzle.

_Did the others never return from the Black City? There is no record, even of our name. We are vilified by legend. They spit on our deeds and claim we brought darkness into the world. We discovered the darkness, we claimed it as our own, let it permeate our being. If the others have not returned, they are lost. I am alone in my glory._

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian muttered. “He remembers.”

“Breaking into the Black City?” Blackwall muttered. “Unleashing the Blight? How many have paid for his crimes?”

“He doesn’t seem to think he’d done anything wrong,” Cullen said. “The way he phrased it, it seems as though…”

“He _wanted_ it,” Trevelyan said, pursing his lips in thought. He turned to the rest of them. “In Haven, he told me he’d found the Golden City already shrouded in darkness. Obviously, that’s not how the Chantry has described those events.”

“He is a monster, twisted and quite possibly insane. Can we believe anything he says?” Cassandra asked.

“I don’t know,” Trevelyan muttered, his finger running along the scar that traced along his eye socket. It was faint, thankfully. Even in his fugue, he’d had the sense to keep it clean and covered in ointment. “He was the only witness to those events. It isn’t as though he and the other Magisters crawled out of the Fade and gave an account of the events that had transpired. This all happened over a thousand years ago, before Andraste or the Chantry.”

They all stood in a momentary silence, as Trevelyan ushered them forward.

_The Anchor is gone, taken by a mage of lesser gifts. I shall descend on this Haven with fire and fury, and take it back. Let us see what manner of Herald this age has bred!_

They tore through a pair of despair demons. Well, Trevelyan did, with a wave of his hand. Flames ripped through the already burning room, and shattered their tiny bodies, sending them to oblivion.

_A slave girl who burned with potential, ignored by all save myself. Her master did not see it; no one saw it. The world has gone craven and blind._

“Nothing we didn’t already know,” Varric muttered.

_How does this age stand such desolation? They sing to a Maker who answers no prayers. Once I have ascended, I will be their answer. I will be their light._

“ _Ugh_ ,” Cassandra muttered, disgusted at the very thought of bowing to anyone but the Maker she worshipped.

“I echo your sentiments, Cassandra,” Dorian said.

_I recited the old verses. How easily they come, even after so long a slumber. Yet still I do not feel the presence of Dumat – hear no whispers, no commands. Silence has fallen._

“Dumat was the Ancient Tevinter God of Silence, right, Sparkler?”

“Yes, and the First Archdemon to rise, according to the histories,” Dorian replied. “Apparently, Corypheus is pining for his long-lost master. They said the Old Gods spoke to the dreamers of ancient Tevinter. Maybe they did, once. Now, even suggesting such would be considered blasphemy. The Maker is the one true god, even within the borders of the Imperium.”

_Calpernia prepares to set foot in the place where regret dwells, to bring it into the light. She cannot know what must be done, cannot understand. In time, she will forgive._

“The place where regret dwells?” Cassandra asked.

“Another piece of the puzzle, I suppose. Whatever Corypheus’ plans entail, it doesn’t look good for Calpernia,” Trevelyan muttered. “We can’t think on it now. Let’s go.”

They charged through the door at the end of the hall, and found themselves in a room full of red lyrium.

“Well, _shit_ ,” Varric moaned. The room was practically coated in the stuff, giant spires of red lyrium growing from the walls, the ground, the ceiling. Dorian could hear its song, twisted and warped, swimming through his head. 

“Mmmm,” Trevelyan muttered, grasping his head. “I suddenly have a terrible headache.”

“Let’s not waste time, then,” Cullen murmured. Trevelyan nodded, and they turned, marching down the stairs, where they spotted a figure slumped against a wall, wearing robes that wouldn’t look out of place on a Circle Mage.

_Maddox._

“Hello, Inquisitor,” he said, in the deadened affect of the tranquil. His voice was quiet, and he struggled to push the words from his lips. _Dying, most likely._

“You know me?” Trevelyan asked.

“It’s Maddox,” Cullen said, leaning down to the man’s side. “Samson’s Tranquil.” He looked over Maddox, and turned to Trevelyan. “Something’s wrong. I’ll send for the healers-“

“That would be a waste, Knight-Captain Cullen. I drank my entire supply of blightcap essence. It won’t be long now.”

_Kaffas._

“We only wanted to ask you questions, Maddox,” Trevelyan whispered, leaning down toward the Tranquil. 

“Yes. That is what I could not allow. I destroyed the camp with fire. We all agreed it was best. Our deaths ensured Samson had time to escape.”

_All this, for Samson?_ Dorian couldn’t help but feel for the Tranquil, and his devotion to the Red Templar commander. To be willing to die for Samson? Could he be so truly terrible, if he inspired such fervent loyalty, even in a tranquil?

“You threw your lives away? For _Samson?_ Why?” Cullen asked, voicing Dorian’s thoughts.

“Samson saved me even before he needed me. He gave me purpose again. I… wanted to help…”

Maddox slumped over, his dull voice silenced as the blightcap essence finally took him. They’d seen many die, but something about the death of the Tranquil was particularly poignant. Dorian couldn’t help but feel that he’d deserved better, not only in having been branded tranquil by a tyrannical Templar, drunk on her own power, but in sacrificing himself for Corypheus’ cause. Cullen shook his head, and stood up.

“We should check the camp. Maddox may have missed something.”

“Wait,” Trevelyan muttered, looking beyond to a door, blockaded by several chunks of stone. “Do you feel that?” He asked, gazing back to Dorian. 

Dorian followed his eyes, and tried to focus on whatever it was that Trevelyan had sensed. He heard it, almost like a heartbeat in his mind, humming quietly behind the door.

“I can feel the pull of the Fade, but it’s focused, layered. Whatever magic lies beyond that door, it’s extremely powerful.”

Trevelyan hummed quietly to himself, and stepped toward the door. “We have to see what’s inside. Dorian, could you help me clear this?”

Dorian rolled his eyes and stepped forward. “I don’t think you require my assistance.”

Trevelyan smirked. “I don’t want to overextend myself, love.”

Dorian smiled, shaking his head. For whatever reason, Trevelyan had decided that lifting rubble was his way of showing Dorian that he wasn’t actively attempting to get himself hurt. As though he hadn’t just cut through a horde of demons by his lonesome. Not that any of that had worried Dorian in the slightest; watching Trevelyan decimate his opponents was strangely reassuring.

They moved to either side of the door, and Dorian pulled the Fade underneath the rubble, ready to lift. It was impossibly light, considering how much stone was blocking the door. Whatever was behind it, they had taken great pains to cover up, hoping that the Inquisitor wouldn’t find what lay within.

Dorian turned to Trevelyan. “You’re doing most of the lifting.”

“Would you prefer I shifted the weight to you?” Trevelyan asked, and Dorian felt the weight of the stone beginning to shift, leaning into his spell, desperate to reconnect with the earth.

Dorian felt himself straining, and he turned to Trevelyan. “All right, you’ve proven your point.”

Trevelyan blew a kiss at Dorian, and the stone suddenly became light as a feather, as Trevelyan heaved it back, and tossed it out of the way.

They moved forward to the door, and Trevelyan placed a hand upon it. 

“Now I really need your help,” he murmured, pressing an ear against the black stone. “Do you think it’s a trap?”

Dorian frowned, and ran his hand along the stone, muttering incantations to dispel any of the wards that might have been placed over the door. He kept waiting for the telltale sensation of a trap being disarmed, like a leather strap snapping against his own magic, but it never came. He started to recite the more complex incantations, reaching into the recesses of his mind, pulling out phrases he hadn’t uttered since his exams to be admitted as an Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle. 

Trevelyan waited patiently, watching Dorian’s lips move, smart enough to know better than to interrupt him while he was working his magic. 

Dorian huffed, and stopped, turning back to the group. “If it’s a trap, I can assure you that it’ll kill us so fast, we’d hardly even mind it.”

Trevelyan pursed his lips, and grabbed at the door handle.

“Wait!” Cassandra yelled. “Let me. I may be able to disable it with my powers. Corypheus may not have accounted for the abilities of a Seeker.”

Trevelyan frowned, and turned to look at Dorian through squinted eyes. 

“All right, Cassandra. But I’m putting a barrier in front of you, just as a precaution. Feel free to rip it to shreds, should you require.”

Cassandra took Trevelyan’s place, and carefully grabbed the handle, pulling carefully as the door began to open. Dorian had taken cover behind the wall, peeking ever so carefully around the corner. 

The door opened without incident. A strange, sky blue glow emanated from the room that was otherwise pitch-black.

“Anyone sensing anything here?” Trevelyan asked, looking around at the others. No one replied.

“I’ll go in first, Inquisitor,” Blackwall offered, as he stepped through the doorway. Trevelyan winced slightly, his face coiled up, waiting for the inevitable trap to spring. 

“Inquisitor?” Blackwall called.

“Blackwall?” Trevelyan replied.

“You may want to see this.”

Trevelyan froze for a moment, unsure of what to do, before he darted forward, sliding in through the doorway. 

_Ass._

Dorian followed quickly thereafter, practically shoving Cassandra out of the way.

“Oh look, a room they haven’t screwed in,” Varric muttered to Cullen. Dorian didn’t turn around to catch Cullen’s response. He was too mesmerized by what was in front of him.

Bound in chains of light… no, were they runes? Whatever they were, they floated through the air, a brilliant sphere that glimmered in the darkness. Within its bounds, a figure, hooded in robes of black, with gold adornments and accents. He was on his knees, hunched over, staring at the ground. Dorian stepped closer, and heard the sound of his voice over the quiet hum of the sphere.

“The light. Light the… the burner. Add a teaspoon of cinnabar...”

_A… Magister?_ Dorian’s breath hitched in his chest, as he tried to discern the face of the man kneeled before him. _Who could it be?_

“He came down in fire and splendor” – Chapter Nine, Verse One.”

“Look at that containment spell,” Dorian whispered. “It would hold a dozen pride demons.”

“What is this? Who are you?” Trevelyan asked. _Fasta Vaas, Gabriel!_

“Magister Erasthenes am I.” _Well, there’s your answer._ “A scholar of Tevinter. To Corypheus I am bound, to answer every question – gaah!” The barrier flared, glowing red for an instant as it sent a shock through the broken body of the man bound before them. Erasthenes sobbed loudly. “For Calpernia’s sake, I am lost.”

“Corypheus did this to you… on Calpernia’s behalf?” 

“She knows not. Unnh!” The barrier flared again. “I am a ruin, the jeweled husk when the butterfly leaves.”

Dorian quietly wondered if this is how he would have felt, had his father gone through with the blood magic ritual. _Or if he does._

What Trevelyan had seen in the Fade had begun to haunt Dorian. He shoved it down and continued listening.

“I was the greatest scholar of the Old Gods in Minrathous – no, in the Imperium. One night, he came to my door. For my relics, I thought. My writings and runes… But instead, my slave went to his side. Calpernia. To become the Vessel, and save Tevinter.”

_Ah. Calpernia’s former master. My sympathy just evaporated._

“If Calpernia’s this Vessel, what are the contents going to be?” Trevelyan asked. 

“I do not know – unnh!” The barrier flared, glowing red and angry. “Power, it must be some sort of power,” Erasthenes gasped. “Power like Urthemiel’s, arisen in flame.”

“Is that why Calpernia joined Corypheus? To save your empire?”

“Yes. She seeks a leader – Corypheus – to shape Tevinter’s rebirth… Unnh! She would raise up the slaves, as she was raised. Bring a new order, with a heart of steel. She could do it. If she were not the Vessel.”

Dorian considered it for a moment. Her goal was… admirable. Calpernia wanted to free the slaves of the Imperium. But she was working with Corypheus, who’d enslaved the Wardens with blood magic. Could she not see that Corypheus was the very source of the rot that plagued the Imperium? That he would treat her no differently than any of his other tools, discarding her once she outlived her usefulness?

“If Calpernia’s the one Corypheus wanted, why do this to you?”

“For practice. I…” the bindings flared slightly, interrupting Erasthenes. He gathered himself before speaking again. “Corypheus crafts a Vessel, for whatever power he seeks. Yes. But he does not need his Vessel to have free will. About her these same chains will fall. Iron, to cage lightning. My binding is the poor pencil sketch. Calpernia will be the masterpiece.”

“Power without free will. That’s her role as the Vessel.”

“Yoked like a Qunari mage, a Saarebas, a circumscribed sycophant. Unnh!”

Trevelyan stood, and Dorian watched as his nostrils flared, his eyes glaring down at the bindings. Not at the Magister before him, but at the fate that awaited Calpernia. _Power without free will._ Their destinies were parallel. At least, that’s what Dorian assumed Trevelyan was thinking.

“This chain has broken me, friend. No wings can raise my mind. Please. Breach the circle – its wards will trigger. I will be dust and light. Free.”

Trevelyan turned to glance at Dorian, and Dorian sighed. “In his place, I’d be begging for it to end.”

“Or it will kill us. Corypheus is not above placing such a trap,” Cassandra urged.

“Corypheus’ circle will hold its destruction within, tight, tight. No fear. Only freedom,” Erasthenes gasped, pleading with Trevelyan to release him.

“All right,” Trevelyan murmured, disappointed. _A soul he can’t save._ “You seem honest, and you’ve suffered enough.” 

“Light a lamp, would you, Calpernia?” Erasthenes babbled. “Everything’s so dark.”

Trevelyan took a step forward, and reached his hand out, his fingers wiggling toward the glowing bindings. The glowing light surrounded his hand, coming up through his fingers in a haze, before blinking away suddenly, exploding outward as they all covered themselves. 

Dorian stood back up, turning his face toward Erasthenes once more, and saw the Magister, finally freed, before watching as he transformed to dust, blown away on a wind that none of them could feel. 

Trevelyan stood, hand outstretched toward the space that Erasthenes had formerly occupied. 

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra asked.

“I…” he started, before turning away. “I’m fine. Thank you, Cassandra. We should take whatever we can find. Our agents can scour the Shrine for anything we overlooked.”

Cassandra nodded, and they turned, leaving behind an empty chamber.

_Power without free will._

Those words echoed in Dorian’s mind, as he watched Trevelyan stuffing paperwork and other goods into his cloak. 

_All the power in the world, and no desire to use it._

“Are these… Maddox’s tools?” Trevelyan asked the room.

_Amatus. You are too good, and the world is far too cruel. How much more suffering will you be able to withstand, before you break for good?_

Trevelyan turned back to the group of them, and smiled wanly. “I think that should do. Shall we?”

Dorian frowned slightly. Two lives were lost, that Trevelyan was doubtlessly adding to his personal tally. The world had decided, however unwittingly, to shoulder Trevelyan with all its burdens, and even if he rose up after falling down into the Fade, Dorian would be foolish to be unconcerned. Trevelyan had faltered, and rightfully so. There was only so much one person could take. How much more, before this all came to an end?

“Hey,” Trevelyan said, hanging back from the rest of the group for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“Thank you for asking, _Amatus_ , but I’m fine. How are you?”

“I’m okay. Sad. I wish we could have saved Maddox and Erasthenes.”

“Does it bother you that he owned slaves?” Dorian asked, trying to transform Trevelyan’s sorrow into some other emotion. Anger, or at least righteous indignation, seemed like a decent option.

“Of course. You really need to fix that, by the way.”

“It’s at the top of my list,” Dorian replied.

“But it doesn’t mean that he should suffer like this, for Maker knows how long.” Trevelyan glanced up at Dorian. “Leliana will be angry that I didn’t leave him there for questioning, but I just… No one should be trapped like that. Even the ones who’ve bound others.”

Dorian frowned, before proceeding as delicately as possible. “Might it be that you feel a bit of a personal connection to that specific predicament?”

Trevelyan smirked. “I suppose. I hadn’t thought about it, actually, but you’re probably right. Like usual.”

“Or always, but let’s not dwell on that distinction.” 

“One day, I’ll find myself free. I don’t know how much of me will be left by that point, but for now, there’s not much I can do,” he murmured, his fingers grazing Dorian’s as their arms swung with their strides. “Being Inquisitor hasn’t been all bad. I’ve met a lot of wonderful people. Cassandra. Cullen. Blackwall. Varric’s writing a book about me!” He laughed, as they continued walking. The others were several long paces ahead of them. Trevelyan didn’t seem concerned with catching up with them.

“I think you’re forgetting someone,” Dorian purred, wrapping a hand gently around Trevelyan’s upper arm.

“Fishing, again?” Trevelyan smiled.

_Kaffas._

____

 

“So, you’re a real boy now?” Dorian asked. Cole stared at him blankly.

“Real creepy boy, but that’s same as always,” Sera cursed, sloshing her tankard in his general direction.

“Not _real_ ,” Cole protested. “ _Realer_ , but still me. But more… you?”

Dorian shuddered. “If you were more me, you’d realize that you’ll never be able to help others unless you first help yourself.”

“I do-“ Cole started. 

“By getting some new clothes,” Dorian interrupted. 

Sera burst into loud guffaws, her laughter shaking her body uncontrollably as she nearly tipped off the stool upon which she was seated. She managed to right herself, and her tankard, even if she’d spilled nearly all its contents. Cole sunk further in his chair, his shoulders hunching forward toward the table, his eyes even more watery than usual.

“Now, now,” Dorian said, putting a hand on Cole’s shoulder. “No reason to be sad. You made a big decision, and we,” he glared at Sera, “will do everything we can to support you.”

“You mean it,” Cole whispered, smiling. “Thank you.”

“I have a question!” Sera announced, launching herself halfway across the table. “Do you still do the demon-y stuff? Jumping into people’s heads?”

Cole looked up at her and frowned. “She only wanted you to love her, you know. Little lies, all for love.”

Sera scowled angrily, and stuck her finger in his face. “I told you to stay out!” She bellowed. “Just because you changed doesn’t mean that has!” She spun around, grabbing her tankard as she stormed up the stairs toward her tiny cabinet. 

Cole smiled quietly, rocking back and forth ever so slightly. Dorian grabbed his shoulder a bit more firmly, to stop him from the motion. 

“Real boy, remember?” Dorian said, as though he were a parent, encouraging his child. The thought nearly made him retch. 

“Sorry,” Cole apologized. He looked up toward the cabinet. “She doesn’t hate me nearly as much as she says she does.”

“Can… you can sense that? How people feel about you?”

“It was easier, when I could make them forget,” Cole said. “Feelings faded, flowing away, faint, until they were free.” He began to rock again, and Dorian’s fingers tightened down. Cole looked up at him, and turned away again. “Sorry,” he muttered, sheepishly.

“And now?”

“Now, they remember. And they have questions. They… fear me.”

Cole stared at the table.

“I only want to help.”

Dorian frowned. Cole may have been several things – irritating, frustrating, maddening at times – but above all, Cole was honest. Dorian believed him, in spite of his years of training to never take the word of a being from beyond the Veil at face value. But Cole was compassion, so pure that he’d broken through the Fade and assumed the form of a mortal in order to effectuate his desire to help.

Now, that simple wish was faced with the complexity of existence, as a human. 

“I know, Cole,” Dorian offered, “But maybe you should focus on yourself, for a little while.”

“How?” Cole asked, looking up at him.

“Unfortunately, spirits turning into humans wasn’t part of my studies within the Circles of the Imperium,” Dorian sighed. He looked out the window, watching as Scout Harding marched up the stairs toward the castle. It was a shame she didn’t spend more time within the walls of Skyhold. She was a delight, in spite of the fact that she was positively provincial. Considering most of Leliana’s scouts had adopted her inscrutable countenance, it only made Harding’s jovial disposition all the more appealing.

_If you had to take someone back with you to Tevinter, she wouldn’t be the worst choice._

“But,” Dorian said, turning back to Cole, “I would imagine that taking the time to settle into your skin would be beneficial. The Inquisition will survive if you take a brief reprieve from your self-imposed duties.”

Cole stared blankly at the bard, who strummed gently on her lute as she sang a breathy hymn. A smile played upon his mouth. 

“All right,” Cole murmured, the spell of Maryden’s song broken. He pouted slightly, as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Can I ask you something?”

Dorian braced himself for whatever intrusion Cole had planned. “Of course,” he replied. Cole looked up at him.

“When does it stop hurting?” 

Dorian’s eyes widened. It wasn’t one of the questions he’d been expecting, and he was taken aback. He looked out the window, and saw Trevelyan making his way across the courtyard, Morrigan following closely behind him. He pondered Cole’s question for but a moment longer.

“I don’t know that it does stop,” Dorian replied. “You just… learn to live with the pain. New wounds bury the old ones. Happier memories come to take their place. Nothing in the world lasts forever; people live and die, empires rise and fall, you understand. And today’s sadness will seem as though it were nothing, come tomorrow.”

Cole sat, thinking over Dorian’s advice, which was really nothing more than a string of platitudes grouped together and spat out in an attempt to help the spirit make sense of his self. 

“You’re afraid,” Cole murmured. “That his love will leave when you do. Nothing lasts forever,” he echoed Dorian’s words.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Dorian muttered, leaning on his hand as he watched Trevelyan disappear into the castle. 

“He loves you now. Very much. More than anything,” Cole replied, leaning closer to him, his words serious and heartfelt.

“Now isn’t the problem,” Dorian replied half-heartedly, not even attempting to stave off Cole’s attempts. He’d learned better by now.

“I can’t see the future,” Cole pursed his lips. “I’m sorry I can’t help,” he whimpered.

“That’s quite alright,” Dorian replied, standing up from the table. “Worry about yourself, for once.”

Dorian turned to leave. 

“They’re heading to the War Room,” Cole called after him.

_So much for stealing Gabriel away for the afternoon._

Dorian pondered where he might spend the rest of his afternoon. 

_Your alcove seems as good a place as any._

Dorian frowned, shaking his head as he walked up the stairs toward the castle. 

He’d woken up to an empty bed – Trevelyan had an early meeting with the Advisors, something about Corypheus’ movements – and a serious case of morning wood. He wished Trevelyan had been there, as he snaked a hand down to stroke himself. 

He moaned lowly as his hand gripped his cock, before releasing it and flinging his arms out against the mattress. Masturbation was hardly enjoyable, especially considering Trevelyan was never too far away. Just a few hours’ wait, and he could have Trevelyan naked, wrapped around him, begging Dorian for more of his mouth, his hands, his cock. 

Dorian felt the fire rise up in his stomach, and he bit his lower lip in frustration. Maybe it was the spring air, or maybe he was just pent up. No, it had only been a day or so since Trevelyan had taken him, gently on his bed, as he sent tiny shockwaves through Dorian’s legs with each thrust, the purple bolts of lightning casting lurid shadows against the wall as Dorian’s legs twitched uncontrollably. When Trevelyan had finished, Dorian had advised him not to pull out, and they laid there, Trevelyan’s lips planting delicate kisses on Dorian’s neck as Dorian’s hips rolled, the aching pleasure of Trevelyan’s thickness resting inside of him.

_Kaffas, you’re going to burst through your pants if you keep up this line of thought._

It seemed that the only thing he’d be able to do in his alcove was try to cover up his erection. So instead, he decided to make his way up to Trevelyan’s chambers. That way, he could catch him as soon as he got upstairs, and have his way with him. 

He opened the door to Trevelyan’s chambers, and climbed up the stairs as he undid the buckles on his clothes. He tossed his clothing gently on the sofa, and climbed into the plush, warm bed, the sheets soft against his skin. He reached a hand out errantly and heard the fireplace spring to life. He grabbed for the book upon his nightstand, but he changed his mind before he opened it, and returned it to its place.

He curled up underneath the sheets, and closed his eyes.

_Don’t fall asleep. You have business to attend to._

The words never worked. He’d found a spell that sent a shock through his eyelids if they stayed shut for too long, but short of studying for his exams in the Circle, he found no reason to utilize it.

Especially not in a bed this comfortable.

_He’ll wake you when he gets here. And you can ravish him then._

___

 

Dorian woke to the feeling of someone pressing against his legs. He rolled his head back slowly, and saw Trevelyan sitting at the side of the bed, staring off into space. Dorian cleared his throat, and Trevelyan woke from his reverie. His face was pressed into lines, his lips puckered in anxiety. 

“ _Amatus_?” Dorian asked. “Are you all right?”

Trevelyan sighed. “I walked through an El… Eluvian today.”

_Kaffas._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It's been a long time since I've last updated. Sorry. Life gets in the way.
> 
> Finals. Holidays. Seeing friends. New Years.
> 
> To be honest, I needed a bit of a break. It's hard, generating so much content in such a short amount of time. Honestly. I know I blather on about word count, but looking back, I have no idea HOW I've done it. Some things in my life definitely have taken a backseat for this, and I'm kind of in a position where I've got some catching up to do; some life that I need to live.
> 
> 2016 has been an amazing year for me. I hope it's been just as wonderful for all of you.
> 
> One more chapter before the Temple of Mythal. I'm bringing out all 9 companions for that affair. Because it's the big set piece battle. It should have been done that way.
> 
> As always, thank you for all the love. The kudos, the comments, the subscriptions, the bookmarks, linking to my work on Tumblr, whatever affection you are sending my way. I'm feeling it right now in such a strong way, and I really feel like my world is in a positive place because of all the love you've been so kind as to send to me. 
> 
> XOXO.


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